


The Slow Burn

by wineandperil



Category: Castle (TV) RPF
Genre: F/M, Gen, In-Universe RPF, RPF
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-22
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2017-12-27 07:07:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,552
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/975908
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wineandperil/pseuds/wineandperil
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>She smells like lavender warmed to a slow burn, and the dying firelight wreaks havoc on the color of her eyes. He tries to give it a name, but at times like this, it’s painfully obvious that he’s no Richard Castle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. part one

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheTruthBetween](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheTruthBetween/gifts).



**_part one  
_** _“I must start at the beginning, if I can find it. Beginnings are elusive things.”  
_ _―_ **Hillary Jordan,** Mudbound 

He doesn’t know what he wants. 

Someone told him once that’s the worst kind of pain. He laughed it off then because it’s what he _does_. He finds humor in everything, charms the world – and life drifts on by.

These days, it feels like he’s humoring himself and charming no one. At night, in the dim light of his bedside table, Darla tells him that it’s _absolutely not true_ , and under the blanket of darkness, he thinks she might be right. It doesn’t stop him from feeling like a fraud in the morning. He clings to the feeling sometimes because he so rarely has new ones. He doesn’t need anyone to tell him that _something_ is better than nothing.

Forty-seven days ago, when Andrew Marlowe showed up on the set of _Desperate Housewives_ touting that script like it was his most prized possession, he entertained jagged thoughts about stories told and retold. How opportunity is two-thirds luck and talent is a commodity. Andrew was buzzing with barely contained enthusiasm, and Nathan regarded him like one would a foreign object. Then he read Andrew’s script, and _he_ felt a spark for the first time in as long as he could remember. It was a slow burn, like a soul itch. For a few hours, he knew _exactly_ what he wanted.

_Stop looking. I’m serious. This guy_ is _me. I can do this._

In many ways, Richard Castle _is_ him. Maybe more endearing. Definitely less jaded.

He told Andrew and Rob Bowman that with more fire than he’d let shine in months. Andrew looked at him long and hard like he was trying to assess his self-assurance, like this meant _everything_ to him. Then he nodded because Nathan also does _that_. He inspires confidence. He gets what he wants – most days anyway. 

His reflection looks at him tiredly from a panel of mirrors in his makeshift dressing room on the set of _Castle_. He’s been screen testing with potential Becketts for days – or weeks. He’s never been particularly good at tracking time when it starts slipping. The prospects have been admittedly dull so far. He gets easily dispirited, and some days he blames it on the weather. LA Novembers are not cold enough or windy enough or icy enough. They’re just not _enough_ , and he finds himself missing the chomp of Canada’s winter against his skin, a painful reminder of how much he craves warmth. He rehearses again and promises himself to give it his all. Beckett’s character is as much a key to the success of the show as Castle’s is. He knows that, and he _wants_ this. 

He’s reminded himself of those two things repeatedly by the time he gets to the audition area. Two more actresses are scheduled to audition today. He had read their names on the sheet Rob handed him this morning, and he’s tacitly glad he doesn’t know either of them. He’s not in a socializing mood, not with frustration crawling through his veins like a silent disease. He can’t think of anyone he knows who would make a good Kate Beckett anyway. Andrew insists that Nathan avoid running lines with the actresses beforehand, so he can feel his way to the snap of that ever-so-elusive _chemistry_. Rick and Kate have only just met anyway, so it makes sense. 

“Nathan, get in position. You’re testing with Stana Katic next. Stana, this is Nathan. He’s playing Richard Castle.”

He smiles politely at the brunette as she walks up to him. She’s pretty enough, he decides. Definitely not Hollywood’s finest, but she could pull off _NYPD’s finest_. High cheekbones. Sleek jawline. Straight nose. Big brown eyes. Nicely shaped mouth, full lips. Then short, awkwardly cropped hair – a past movie? A bet? He wants to ask her but decides to shelve the niceties (and potential awkwardness) for now.

She smiles at him as she reaches out to shake his hand, and it takes him completely off-guard. Her smile. It transforms her from _pretty enough_ to _striking._ It’s such a powerful weapon, he thinks, for someone to have – the perfect mélange of beautiful, sexy and enigmatic in one facial expression. He wonders how he’s never heard of Stana Katic before. With that _Julia Roberts-esque_ smile, her face should be plastered all over things.

“Hi Stana,” he says and realizes he’s blasting on full charm mode. With thoughts clamoring in his head, he holds onto her hand a little longer than he should, but she doesn’t remark on it as she retrieves her fingers, mutters a quick _hi_ back at him, looks over her script one last time and tucks it into the folder she’ll be carrying in the scene. She’s _shy_. What a fascinating creature.

“Alright, beautiful people, lets do the first part of the scene which stops at Castle saying _okay_. We start rolling in three, two, one and action!”

He sits at the same wooden table he has been staring at actresses over for the past two weeks. It’s a shoddy attempt at recreating the interrogation room at the 12th precinct. Beckett is supposed to walk in and rip into him. He’s curious about Stana, about her Beckett, and it’s more than he’s felt about any of these other auditions. He wonders if he might still be fixating on _that smile_ and then gives himself a hard mental shake in favor of channeling Richard Castle. But Castle is enchanted by Beckett – she’s his something new. Maybe _he needs to fixate_. 

Stana strolls into the frame, and Nathan’s gaze lifts to find her reticence cloaked by an air of confidence so convincing it makes him want to blink harder. “Mister Castle, you’ve got quite a rap sheet for a best-selling author. Disorderly conduct? Resisting arrest?” She looks up from her folder to pin him with a sharp, assessing look.

He curls one corner of his lips in a devil-may-care smile. “Boys will be boys,” he intones smoothly.

There’s a hint of an answering smile on her face when she looks down at the file and then back at him again. He wonders if there’s anything actually written in there. “It says here that you stole a police horse?” she prods.

“Borrowed,” he supplies helpfully, a little too pleased with himself. He wonders if he should tone it down, but Stana’s dark liquid eyes sparkle at him with barely concealed challenge. That look makes him feel like he’s gotten it just right.

“Ah. And you were nude at the time?” It’s almost like she can really imagine him on a police horse in the nude.

He’s momentarily embarrassed for Richard Castle, but the man is truly unrepentant. “It was spring.”

“And every time the charges were dropped.” There’s something off about her accent. It’s catchy, like a subtle lilt he wants to wait for. Certain words her voice snags on and takes an unexpected turn. He starts listening for the anomalies as she drops the folder onto the table beside his hand and takes a seat across from him. The look she gives him says she’s on to him but still reluctantly amused by his shenanigans.

It feels natural for him to prop both elbows on the table and push forward, eyes glinting with dangerous suggestion. “What can I say? The mayor is a fan. But if it makes you feel any better, I’d be happy to let you spank me.” His voice drops an octave. It’s an improvisation that he doesn’t really plan. It just happens, and it brings a hint of that glorious smile back. It dominates her demeanor as she mirrors his pose, leaning far across the small table. And what is it she smells like? He’s gotten used to the overpowering perfumes favored by rising divas. This is something much more subtle, a combination of lavender and hints of something sweet and sensual like musk. It’s utterly distracting.

“Mister Castle, this whole bad boy charm thing that you’ve got going might work for bimbettes and celebutantes. Me? I work for a living. So that makes you one of two things in my world: either the guy who makes my life easier or the guy who makes my life harder. And trust me you do not want to be the guy who makes my life harder.”

“Okay.”

“And cut!”

They both look up simultaneously. It feels like someone just snapped their fingers in front of his face, but it also feels _good_. The onslaught of positivity takes him aback, but the truth is he thinks it flowed brilliantly. If nothing else, it’s definitely been the best delivery of his lines so far. He looks back at Stana and immediately wonders what she’s thinking. Did she feel the snap the same way he did? Does she think it’s exhilarating how remarkably the rapport between the two of them sparked to life? Stana looks nervous, and he admires the way she drifts in and out of character. It’s easy to tell it’s two completely different people even when she’s not speaking.

Behind the cameras, Andrew and Rob are whispering furiously. Rob glances back to where Stana and Nathan are still sitting. “Thanks, guys. Do you think you could do the rest of the scene? Everybody good with their lines?” he calls out.

They both nod like schoolchildren asked about their homework. Nathan has only done the rest of the scene with three other actresses since the auditions began. He wants to tell her it’s a good sign, but it would be unprofessional so he waits for Rob’s countdown and becomes Richard Castle again. The next few lines are about the victims. She paces them perfectly, so the banter crackles between them. And she rolls her eyes at him when he’s trying to be his wittiest and most charming.

He leans forward again, gazes deeply into her green-flecked eyes, and says: “Do you know you have gorgeous eyes?” He – the Nathan part of him – realizes that she _does_ have gorgeous eyes. She also has a small mole under her eye that he finds fascinating.

Her breath hitches and she opens her mouth to say something but for a full second nothing comes out. Then she’s back to business – just like that, in the blink of an eye. “So I take it that you won’t have any objection to us going through your mail?”

“Knock yourself out.” She gets up and collects the blasted folder. “Can I get copies of those?” he asks quickly, like she’s really about to leave him sitting there, like this isn’t all scripted.

“Copies?”

“I have this poker game. It’s mostly other writers: Patterson, Cannell… you know, bestsellers. You have no idea how jealous those would make them.”

“Jealous?” she echoes, more incredulous than confused this time around.

“That I have a copycat.” He’s giving her his trademark puppy eyes now. “Oh my gosh, in my world that’s the red badge of honor. That’s the criminal Cooperstown.”

It actually startles him when she places her hands on the table before him non-too-gently and leans down, her face inches away from his. “People are dead, Mister Castle.”

“I’m not asking for the bodies, just the pictures,” he’s almost whispering, eyebrows raised – this _is_ him at his most endearing.

She smiles tightly, lifts an eyebrow and pulls back. “I think we’re done here.” Then she turns around and walks ‘off screen’.

“And _cut!_ ” Rob calls out. He snatches his gaze away from Stana to find Rob grinning to himself while staring at his little screen. He wonders what the other man sees there. Nathan’s gaze seeks her out again, and she’s definitely more nervous than she was before. One of the crewmembers is already chatting her up animatedly, smiling too broadly. He’s seen that look before, but Stana is barely listening, distracted by Andrew making his way towards her. The crewmember – Tony something – whispers something to her and walks away.

Andrew is wearing his poker face, but Nathan catches his tells in the way he nods too much and excitedly taps his pen against a clipboard. He’s pretty sure it’s Andrew’s usual line thanking her for coming out and promising to call with updates in the next day or two. Her lips part on the shape of the words _thank you_. Before his mind really registers the action, Nathan finds himself walking towards her, stumbling over his opening line in his head. She’s gathering her belongings into a trendy little black purse when he reaches her side.

He decides on a casual, “hey!” Always a safe bet. And he really needs to stop overthinking things. This is so unlike him.

Stana looks up at him and smiles, shy again without the guise of Kate Beckett to slink into. “Hey,” she echoes and slings the purse over her shoulder.

“You were great.” It’s his honest opinion. He hasn’t really seen what it looked like on screen, but it felt like the best performance he’s given.

Her smile grows and she shrugs sheepishly. “Thank you. You definitely made it easy to bounce these lines back and forth,” she tells him, and the praise pleases him inordinately. “I was a little nervous, but it was fun,” she admits.  

“Yeah, it was fun.” He thinks _a little_ is a gross understatement, but he decides his bluntness needs to be tempered. He holds in the remark about her hair, too. Maybe next time (because he’s almost sure there will be a next time). “Where are you from?”

She looks surprised, almost worried that she’s committed an irrevocable grievance that gave her away. “Hamilton, Ontario.”

“What? No!” Impulsively, he reaches out and places both hands on her slim shoulders. Then – without really thinking it through because he’s riding on a high – he pulls her into a friendly bear hug that she barely returns with one arm slung around his back. “We’re kinsfolk. I’m from Edmonton!” he explains to her stunned face. In the back of his mind, he registers that Andrew is watching them from afar. Interesting.

Stana, oblivious to the curious gazes they’re drawing, laughs quietly, surprise melting into earnest amusement. “LA is too warm,” she confides in him, her nose scrunching in mock disdain.

He chuckles. “I was thinking the same thing earlier today. You hate the snow until you don’t have it,” he muses and tries to stop smiling so much.  

“Like most things in life,” she shoots back, a little despondent and immediately remorseful as she punishingly bites her lower lip.

“Ain’t that the truth,” he echoes and sighs, and she lets out a breath of laughter. Because what he does is make everything seem lighthearted. If only he hasn’t been feeling so _heavy_ lately.

Stana straightens like she regrets bringing something tangentially personal and desolate into their conversation. She gives him what he dubs her signature smile: sunny and bright and oh so beautiful. “I have to get going,” she says. Then quickly, like she doesn’t want to entertain the thought: “If I don’t hear back… good luck with this. You’re doing Castle brilliantly.”

He wants to thank her, to keep smiling at her, to tell her jokes and make her smile at him again, but she’s gone far too quickly for him to wrap his mind around her presence. He’s still staring after her when the second actress comes up to him and introduces herself.

He goes through the motions. He’s a professional. He gives it his all, but he keeps thinking:

_This is just the beginning._


	2. part two

**_part two  
_** _“You just know something is amiss, when you look at someone and long for something that is not yours or you cannot have. It's an absence--a loss of a heartbeat.”  
_ **― Nadège Richards,** Burning Bridges 

Something wakes him. 

Everything smells like coffee and sunshine, and the edges of his dream fizzle into the harsh brightness. It was something colorful and warm, the slick slide of someone’s skin against his, palms brushing, fingers tangling, a star-studded inky black night sky, sun-streaked hair and laughing eyes – and ice cream. Yes, delicious rocky road ice cream.   

“Morning baby,” Darla murmurs and leans down to press a kiss to the corner of his lips, and the remnants of that fantasy disappear into her scent. Mm, coconut oil – and hair spray?   

His eyes have a hard time adjusting to the light, but he smiles a little as her silhouette moves around his bedroom, all deep tan and long black hair. “Morning,” he rasps and rubs his face roughly. 

“You alright? It’s almost nine-thirty,” she says as she rifles through her drawer and pulls out a pair of dangly earrings. 

His head snaps off the pillow, and he sits up, cursing under his breath. “ _Shit_ , shit, shit,” he repeats, casting the sheets aside hastily. “I’m _so_ late.” He darts into the bathroom and closes the door. Over the rush of running water, he can hear her apologizing for not waking him up earlier. She has an audition today, and she’s been caught up in preparations. 

Nathan tells her not to worry, speaking reassurances around the toothbrush in his mouth. He showers and gets dressed in record time. When he grabs his car keys, he walks over to where Darla is sitting at the island in the middle of his kitchen, perusing her script. 

“Good luck today,” he tells her and kisses her forehead before jogging to the driveway. 

He makes it to the studio in less than twelve minutes, somehow. Traffic violations were involved, but at least he was lucky enough to avoid an unpleasant encounter with the LAPD. Andrew frowns a little when he strolls into the testing area, almost a full hour late, but Rob shoots him a friendly, reassuring smile. Good cop, bad cop, he guesses. 

“One of those mornings, huh?” Rob asks kindly, passing him the schedule. 

“Yeah,” he mutters and slides off his sunglasses to peruse the day’s events. He must look harassed because the director gives him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder before brushing past him to find Andrew. The schedule promises even more Beckett screen tests. He sighs. He’s definitely done over a hundred by now. 

_< 10:30 A.M.> – Final round RC/KB screen tests (X4)_ 

Nathan knows it doesn’t really mean anything. There were four “finalists” yesterday and the day before and the day before that, and they had all ended with some variation of Andrew’s new famous line. 

_Thank you for coming out. We appreciate your time. Unfortunately, the fit isn’t quite right. We’ll be in touch if there are other more appropriate spots._  

He can still see the legion of crestfallen faces, featureless and all blurred into one polished Hollywood visage. Before he could flip the page to skim over their names, Laura Greene grabs his elbow and starts tugging. The attempt to forcibly move him is futile, but it does draw his gaze to her narrowed eyes. Laura, their makeup artist, is a small woman, and he’s a sizeable adversary. 

“Nathan! You’re late!” she says sharply, her stern look communicating that same sense of harried urgency as she tugs at his arm again. This time he steps into her pull, following her short but powerful steps to the makeup room. “We are _so_ behind schedule. We need to get you to hair and makeup… and did you just take a shower?” she asks, frowning at his hair. 

He nods, feeling scolded and absently touches his still-wet hair. 

“Oh, I like the stubble,” she says. _Shit_ , he forgot to shave. “I think we’ll keep it.” She tries to guide him into the makeup room, but he stops her with a firm hand on her shoulder. 

“Laura,” he begins calmly. “I haven’t had coffee yet.” 

She assesses him for all of ten seconds, takes the schedule from him then seems to come to the decision that the lack of caffeine is not acceptable. “Make it quick,” she presses and disappears into the makeup room. 

He lets out a large breath. This is shaping up to be a wrong-side-of-the-bed kind of day. He finds his way to the break room and makes a cappuccino because a day like this deserves indulgences. He dumps two packets of Splenda into his _Firefly_ mug, stirs the sweetener in and takes a long sip. The hot liquid stings his tongue, but his brain is too grateful for the caffeine to bemoan the pain. He hides behind his mug on the way back and almost spills his hard-earned cappuccino all over the brunette stepping out of the makeup room. 

“Whoa!” He barely balances the hot mug, his other hand flying out to grab the woman’s elbow and steady her. 

She lets out a startled gasp and looks up from whatever she was intently contemplating. And, oh. _Oh._ Maybe it’s not just another day. 

“Hey!” she greets him warmly and _smiles_. Lord, that smile must send hearts beating across the continent. 

“Hey, how are you doing?” He smiles back at her easily, notices that her hair is styled a little differently, and she looks uncomfortable. She’s fiddling with her blouse and touting a pair of large hairstylist’s scissors. Scissors? She’s distracted, far too distracted to engage in small talk. 

“So,” she begins and continues to toy with the billowy white blouse she’s wearing. “Can you help me out for a second?” she asks  

“Sure.” He doesn’t hesitate, even though he can _feel_ Laura glaring daggers at him from wherever she is. “Do you want to run lines or maim me with these scissors?” he poses solemnly. 

She laughs, and the sound is breathy and nervous. “No, no,” she murmurs, draws in a deep breath. “Neither. Can you cut a straight line?” she asks him, suddenly serious, her eyes fixing on him with all that dark-bright intensity. 

Nathan pauses, downs another sip of his coffee because of course he’s not nervous or off-balance. “I can try, but I’m not promising anything,” he says, mimicking the gravity of her request. She cracks a smile at that and hands over the scissors. He gives her his coffee and tries not to watch as she runs her thumb over the _Firefly_ logo. “Wait, what am I cutting a straight line into?” he asks, lifting his eyebrows in  

She lets out another laugh, pure amusement this time. And God, he hasn’t met anyone who laughs so freely in a while. It’s _refreshing_. “My shirt,” she replies like it should have been obvious. She holds out the billowy white again, and he thinks it would be interesting to see her in that shirt in a wind tunnel. He also thinks of how creatively he can cut a vertical line down that shirt. This is bad. Really, really bad. “This part,” she explains as she bunches up the material and holds it out to him. “It needs to go. Not very detective- 

“Not very Kate Beckett,” he agrees, pretends to inspect the blouse critically and snaps the scissors a couple of times like he’s a professional at wielding scissors to cloth. Obviously he’s never done this before. Hopefully, she hasn’t done this before either. Her eyes track the movement of his hand as he begins to cut into her shirt. He’s vaguely aware that they’re in the middle of the hallway in a bustling studio. Keeping his hand level and still, he works around, and he’s almost, _almost_ done when Rob’s voice startles him out of his flow. 

“Nathan! Is that you?” he asks, peering around the woman whose blouse he’s tearing into. It sounds _a lot_ dirtier than it is. “Oh, hey Stana! It’s good to have you back.” He can hear the smile in the other man’s voice, and Stana’s earnest response of _it’s good to be back_. “Andrew, you remember Stana?” They both shake hands with her again, and Nathan can almost feel her embarrassment. _Shy_ , yes he remembers. 

“Yup, me,” he answers drolly, sticking his head out beside her hip. Embarrassing situations? Totally his element. “I just need a second,” he promises and returns to the task at hand. Just one more stretch of fabric. He plows the scissors into it and stands up to inspect his work. So it’s a little crooked – not unexpected. Not as bad as he thought it would look. 

“We’ll see the two of you on set in ten minutes,” Rob tells them, a small smirk persisting on his lips as he and Andrew exchange _a look_. The producers turn around and start walking away just as Stana whips around to face him, a blush high on her cheeks. 

“ _Shit_ ,” she mutters. “That was bad. I’m sorry. Did you have to be somewhere?” They exchange the mug and scissors  

“Running a little late this morning,” he admits. “But trust me, this was _good_ ,” he promises with a grin. “They _love_ you.” 

“Thank you,” she tells him sincerely. “For the blouse, too. It looks great.” 

“Well, I wouldn’t go that far,” he teases. “It’s a ramshackle job at best, but it does look more detective-ish,” he decides, tossing back her word from  

“Nathan! Hair and makeup!” Laura’s head pops out of the makeup room, her hand following to latch onto his wrist. “No more delays.” 

Stana lifts a single eyebrow at him, and he shrugs self-consciously. “That your cue?” she  

“Yeah,” he sighs dramatically. “A little more physical than usual,” he nods at Laura’s hand around his wrist, her blue eyes piercing through him. 

She giggles, and it’s a delightful sound. He’s halfway into the makeup room when he hears her say, “I’ll see you on set in a few.” He grins to himself rather stupidly he decides. This is all quite, quite unlike him. He pulls himself together in makeup, puts on his Richard Castle face, and reviews his lines. It’s unnecessary since he’s said them all dozens of times with dozens of  

The moment he gets to the testing area, he’s quickly ushered to his spot by one of the crewmembers. Stana is already there, listening attentively to something Rob is telling  

“Good, you’re here,” Rob says, looking away from her for a moment to gesture to Nathan to stay put. “Alright, Stana, get in position. We’ll start rolling in a few seconds.” He jogs back to his place behind the camera as Stana walks over to the white _X_ on the ground that marks her position. 

“I love this scene,” she tells him and turns her back to him. 

He smiles a little. He’s actually begun to abhor this scene because he’s done it so many times, but it’s brilliantly written. Andrew is a genius. He tries to think of something witty to say, rifles through his repertoire of comebacks. And then Rob interrupts his thought process with: “Three, two, one… action!” 

He’s Richard Castle, and he’s just spent the best day in recent memory with this amazing, fascinating woman whose strength compels him. She grounds him, keeps him in check, and he hasn’t had that in decades. He walks up to where Stana is standing in her cropped blouse and leans down to clear his throat beside her ear. 

She takes a distancing step and turns around to face him, and she _is_ Kate Beckett. Or at least everything he imagines Kate Beckett to be. Her eyes dance with _something_. Amusement? Mirth? Reluctant admiration? He can’t quite place it, but she breaks the silence easily, her eyes intent on his face. “Well, I guess this is it,” she declares with that barely-there hint of sadness. 

“Well, it doesn’t have to be,” he counters, eager and earnest, lifting his shoulders in a half-shrug. “We could go to dinner, debrief each other,” he suggests hopefully. 

The smile that curves her lips is all woman and knowing. “Why, Castle?” she challenges. “So I can be another one of your conquests?” Her eyebrows lift, pause, daring him to refute her assumption.

Richard Castle is cheeky and endearing. He slants a half-smile at her. “Or I can be one of yours,” he shoots back, eyes crinkling at the corners with the force of his persuasive grin.

She contemplates him for a moment longer than she should, like she’s really considering his offer, like she’s imagining what it would be like for Kate Beckett to throw away her reservations and have one wild night with this charming, irreverent man. Then she purses her lips, like she’s come to an unpleasant conclusion, but she can see no other way around it. He’s completely fascinated by her facial expressions. “It was nice to meet you, Castle,” she says, and it’s honest – simple. She holds out her open hand between them. 

He looks down at her slender fingers then back at her face and places his hand in hers, holding it lightly like he plans to do it much, much longer than propriety allows. “It’s too bad,” he tells her, still smiling, borrowing a little bit of her remorse. “It would’ve been great,” he says it like a promise, because _Castle_ wishes she would change her mind.

She keeps her hand in his, a warm solid weight against his palm as she studies him playfully and then she bites her bottom lip like _oh_. Like she can almost imagine it. _Oh_. Damn, she’s _good_. It’s a lot sexier than it should be. Maybe he’s biased because he’s Richard Castle. And Richard Castle – _Castle –_ is more than a little infatuated with _her_ – _Beckett_. Then with her hand still enclosed in his, she steps into him, lifts herself onto her tiptoes and places her lips close to his ear. Her warm breath ghosts against his neck and his earlobe, and really he’s done this many, many times. There’s no reason this should be any different. But it _feels_ different. “You have no idea,” she whispers and pulls back. Her hand slides out of his as she gives him one last look, turns around and walks away. He’s left staring after her, feeling bereft, hopeful, ambivalent.

“And cut!”

He’s still staring after her and probably would have been for another minute if not for Rob abandoning his cameras to rush after Stana. He looks around and finds Andrew giving Rob a subtle nod – not that the director looks like he can be deterred at this point. Nathan finds himself following the ruckus, standing at Stana’s side when Rob finally reaches his destination and pauses. 

He looks at the two of them like he can’t quite believe his good fortune, then he sticks out his hand to Stana. She looks from Nathan to Rob in confusion but places her hand in his nevertheless. Smart girl. He pumps her hand enthusiastically, and those alluring lips tilt in a half-smile, self-conscious and hopeful.

“Congratulations, Stana. Kate Beckett is all yours,” he announces with faux grandeur. “We’re so excited to have you onboard. We start filming the pilot on Monday in Manhattan. Tony will discuss the logistics with you later, and you can come in tomorrow to review the contract terms,” he rattles off the list and then stops to flash another smile at her incredulous face. “You can’t tell me you didn’t expect this. The two of you are crackling like… like a livewire out there. I haven’t seen anything like this in _years_!” he gushes and claps once, and Stana is beaming.

She laughs and thanks Rob many, many times as he congratulates her again. Then she turns to Nathan and throws her arms around him in an impulsive hug. He reacts quickly, pulls her a little closer than he did last time because now they’re _both in this_. And she’s so full of joy; it’s almost contagious. 

“We should celebrate!” Nathan exclaims, and she nods automatically, a safe distance away now, fairly bouncing with excitement. “Since we’re going to be in New York next week to start filming, I happen to have two tickets to a Duran Duran concert.”

She gapes at him. “You do not!”

“I do too. You a fan?”

“Am I a _fan_?” she echoes disbelievingly. “I’m almost a groupie!”

He grins, so very pleased with himself. “Awesome. It’s set then. Celebratory Duran Duran concert.”

She shakes her head, presses one hand to the back of her neck and uses the other one to fiddle with her hair, tugging at the short strands like she wishes they would grow instantaneously. “I feel like I just won the lottery – _twice!_ ” she tells him, eyes wide, her grin large and unassuming like life is so, _so_ good. He misses feeling like that: unchecked elation. “Do you think I’m going to get hit by a bus on my way out? Too much good in one day?” she asks seriously, eyes still twinkling, like even that can’t dampen her mood.

He lets out a startled laugh. “You deserve this, Stana. You’re not going to get hit by a bus,” he says firmly, keeps his smile soft.

“Thanks.” She seems satisfied by his explanation and looks away when his own stare becomes a little too intense. He tries to describe this and her, settles on charismatic but incredibly understated. Like she wishes to hide away from the attention the world wants to lavish on her, feels like she maybe doesn’t deserve it.

“Nathan, you’re off the hook. No more screen testing with Becketts,” Andrew says from somewhere behind him. He swivels and grins at the older man.

“Aw, but I was so looking forward to saying _debrief each other_ another thirty or so times,” he jokes.

Andrew smiles at him as he walks past him to shake Stana’s hand. “Welcome to _Castle_ , Ms. Katic. We’re lucky to have you here.”

New line! Nathan wants to point it out, make another joke, but Stana looks awed. Maybe he shouldn’t ruin her moment. He decides to be good and excuses himself when Andrew and Stana start discussing Beckett’s character.

For a day that started sideways, it has managed to right itself remarkably well. He hums to himself en route to his dressing room, inordinately pleased with himself and with the day – the past hour really. He latches onto what Rob said earlier: crackling like a livewire. Maybe _Castle_ will survive longer than a season. Much, much longer. It would be easy, he thinks, to play Richard Castle. He’s one and the same with Richard Castle – more or less. Andrew somehow manages to mimic his sense of humor perfectly, down to his mannerisms, his diction. It makes him a little weary thinking about it, his and Richard Castle’s similarities.

Sometimes with roles like Castle, time plays a nasty little trick that blurs the lines between fiction and reality.

He worries, in the back of his mind, about his dream, about Stana’s smile, about his alarming tendency to stare at her, about Richard Castle who is some version of him, about Richard Castle who longs for Kate Beckett. He worries, but he shakes it off because it’s a good day. 


	3. part three

**_part three  
_ ** _“Let her remain where she is. A constellation away.”  
_ **― Eric Gamalinda,** **** My Sad Republic

 

By the end of May, he knows he’s in trouble. It’s not bad trouble exactly because Stana is – well _Stana_. She’s aloof and candid, too far and too close, hot and cold, untouchable and within reach. She’s a legion of contradictions and ambiguities he can hardly wrap his mind around. Some days it feels like he’s known her for decades, but when he thinks about it – about her – he realizes that there’s very little he actually knows. Still, something feels like trouble, and it nags at the back of his mind even as the day’s festivities officially begin.

Last week, _Castle_ was officially renewed for a second season, and it’s enough cause for celebration. The first season was a struggle of not-quite-there numbers and threats of cancellation. They pulled it off – somehow. It means at the very least, he has a job for another year. It means working with Stana for another year. Maybe it also means trouble. After hearing the news on Monday, Nathan had impulsively invited the entire cast and crew to an impromptu Sunday backyard barbeque.

It’s a beautiful Sunday in late May, and the Los Angeles spring is in full swing. The grass is cut short, crisp and green, and the flowers his gardener keeps boasting about are dizzyingly brilliant and colorful. His modestly sized pool gleams like an oasis under the glaring sunlight of the early afternoon, and people in all manners of early summer glitz are milling about his backyard. The buzz is loud and happy, and the alcohol is traipsing around like a drunken ballerina. There’s so much _hope_. It fills him with something bright and weightless. 

“I love your place,” Terri says as she steps up beside him to watch over the small crowd from the edge of his property.

He looks to his right and smiles at her warmly. Although she hasn’t written for the show yet, Terri has been closely involved in _Castle_ and Andrew’s work on the show. Her vision for Castle and Beckett has fed into much of their performances. Rob told him she would be writing in season two, and this is as much her success as anyone else’s. “Thank you. How do you like the party?” 

“It’s great. Everyone’s having a smashing time. Might be the booze,” she teases. 

He grins unrepentantly. “I had to make sure there was plenty of that on hand.” 

“There’s definitely plenty,” she agrees and lifts her glass of white wine to his long-neck. The thick green glass thuds against her wine glass. “Cheers!” 

“Cheers,” he echoes. “To many more seasons of _Castle_.” 

“I’ll drink to that,” she tells him around a smile and downs the wine in her glass. 

Nathan takes a swig of his beer, and he’s about to say something else. Something important about the show, about Andrew or Richard Castle. But his gaze snags on Stana walking through the glass doors to his backyard, teetering on the edge of fashionably late in a pair of skinny pale blue jeans that are threadbare at the knees and a loose-fitting white t-shirt. Her dark hair is up in a messy bun from which several strands have escaped to flirt with her jaw and neck. A tasteful long gold chain hangs around her neck with what looks like a locket for a pendant. She looks radiant as she steps into the sunshine. It takes him a full minute to notice Darla at her side, chatting with her animatedly and waving her into the gathering.

Truth be told, he was starting to think she wasn’t going to show, and it was bothering him more than it should. He knows people in LA lead busy lives and his invitation was hardly preplanned. And it’s not like he and Stana don’t already spend a lot of time together on the show and promoting the show. It doesn’t mean anything, but it still makes his heart trip for a second to see her. 

“Ah, here comes everyone’s favorite detective,” Terri jokes, following his gaze to where Stana is now being handed a glass of rosé wine by Andrew and pulled into a discussion with him and Rob. 

He lets out a breath of laughter, and he hopes it covers how glad he actually is that she made it. From across the pool, Darla spots him and starts towards him, smiling sunnily. 

“And here comes your lady,” Terri continues. “Time for a refill for me,” she says holding up her empty glass. 

“We can’t have that.” 

“I’ll catch up with you in a bit.” She gives him another smile, and he thinks there’s an edge of sympathy to the expression. He doesn’t dwell on it but it nags at him. And he tries not to frown back at her when she walks away. 

“Hey baby.” Darla’s voice slices through the turmoil of thoughts in his mind. She links her arm through his as she presses up on her heels to plant a kiss on his cheek. She looks beautiful in a white dress that stops just above her knees and shows off her California tan. “Are you okay? You look a little out of it.” 

“Yeah, I’m fine,” he reassures her, smiling gently. “You having a good time?” 

She nods, and her midnight black hair spills over her tanned shoulder. And this? This is something good. He focuses on it, on her. “Everyone is wonderful, and Stana just arrived. Nate, she’s absolutely lovely just like you said,” she gushes, her smile wide. He smiles back because his girlfriend is a little star struck by his previously-unknown-costar of ten episodes. “I love her character on the show. Oh, and she brought a _really_ nice bottle of wine.” 

He takes another swig of his beer and takes her hand in his. “Yeah? What wine?” he asks conversationally. Darla is a wine enthusiast, one of the many things he likes about her. 

“The ’82 Chateau Margaux Bordeaux blend.” 

And it’s just like Stana to do things like this, things that throw him off-balance like remembering his favorite wine from the one time he mentioned it in passing on an uncharacteristically cold Wednesday afternoon in February. 

Nathan manages to smile and hates himself for hiding behind his acting. “Wow, fancy,” he intones breezily and wiggles his eyebrows like this means nothing. 

“I stashed it away for a special occasion,” she confesses with a sexy gleam in her coffee brown eyes. 

“Good thinking.” He leans down and brushes a kiss to her warm lips. 

“I need to go. My dad is getting in at three, which is…” she trails off to check her watch. “In a little under an hour. We’ll see you tomorrow for lunch?” 

“Yeah.” 

She kisses him again, light and quick, and then she’s off. 

*** 

The party has been a raging success, infused with hope and humor and the sweet taste of early success. With the late sunset painting the sky in hues of red and orange, the crowd seems to have dwindled to a remaining few. He made his rounds time and again, entertaining his guests the best way he knows how. Somehow, he managed to see as much of Stana as everyone else. He didn’t linger when she pulled him into a warm hug and thanked him for the party, but he’s been watching her since she walked in. He picks her out easily now in the small gathering, throwing her head back in laughter at something Tony is telling her. The assistant director smiles at her too much, and his hands always find a clever way to touch her. Fingers to her elbow to draw her attention, hands brushing against hers as he relieves her of an empty wine glass. Nathan pours over these little things clinically, sets himself apart from that because of course it doesn’t bother him. He does breathe a little easier when Stana excuses herself and heads over to the cooler. 

She pulls out two beers, closes a fist around the neck of each bottle and looks straight at him. He lifts an eyebrow in question, unsettled at having been caught watching her. He didn’t think she’d seen him sitting in one of the wicker chairs around his fire pit. It’s always been his favorite part of his backyard, his proudest investment. As the spring air started to turn cool, he’d started the fire, and it’s more aesthetic than anything else. Stana tilts a small curve of a smile at him as she floats towards him, a vision in white and blue and summer scribbled all over her. 

“Thanks,” he murmurs when she hands him one of the ice-cold beers. He twists off the cap and tips the mouth against his lips, letting the acrid liquid sit on his tongue. He closes his eyes and sighs; this is exactly what he needs. He’s not sure what _this_ is. 

“Nice shirt, Nate,” she says into the still of sunset, and his gaze snaps to hers in surprise. “You should wear black t-shirts more often. It’s very sexy,” she whispers conspiratorially and smiles wider, bottom lip caught between her teeth. She places her hand on his bicep, warm and light – teasing – before she sinks down on the chair beside his, taking her touch away. She smells like lavender warmed to a slow burn, and the dying firelight wreaks havoc on the color of her eyes. He tries to give it a name, but at times like this, it’s painfully obvious that he’s no Richard Castle. He thinks of an angry ocean kicking up a storm of murky green and amber, of olivine sand he saw in Hawaii last year, of hot chocolate and an olive-green Tanager. And he might wear black t-shirts everyday for the rest of his life. He can be Steve Jobs. He can be whatever she wants him to be if she keeps looking at him like that. 

“Flattery,” he manages after a second too long of silence, and the speculative female appreciation in her eyes disappears like a trick of the firelight. It’s a Beckett look, and he’s never seen it on Stana before. He can tell the difference so well. It only gets complicated between him and Rick. “Careful it might get to my pretty head.” 

Her expression softens into something indulgent, and she looks away like she’s privy to his thoughts and they scare her. “Your pretty head is just fine.” 

They’re both silent for a few minutes. The fire sputters feebly, still alive but barely there, and the sun’s plunge leaves dusk in its crimson wake. He fills his lungs with her and slides further into the chair, and this is exactly why he loves this last-minute addition to his house. On nights like this, the promise of stars makes him a little breathless, and for the first time in as long as he can remember, life is good. He ruminates on how far he’s come when she says.  “It’s really nice of you to do this, you know.” 

“Felt like the right thing to do,” he says quietly. “I feel lucky, like I’m about to get hit by a truck lucky.” 

He can see her smile out of the corners of his eyes like the memory of that day is just as fresh in her mind as it is in his. “We’ve been very lucky,” she agrees. “For a while there, I really thought we weren’t going to make it.” 

“Yeah, me too,” he admits over a sigh and downs a sip of beer. “Only thing the party was missing was a band,” he laments playfully. “Could’ve emptied out the pool, set them up down there.” 

“Great acoustics,” she agrees, playing along. 

“I know a band that does a mean cover of Hungry Like The Wolf.” He lifts both eyebrows and turns to look at her bemused expression before she scoffs. 

“Nothing can beat Duran Duran’s performance in Central Park,” she counters. Their eyes connect and hold for a beat longer than he means for it to happen. 

“ _I’m on the hunt, I’m after you..._ ” he sings in baritone, wiggling his eyebrows when she turns in her chair to gape at him. “ _Mouth is alive, juices like wine. And I’m hungry like the wooo-oolf_!” She bursts out laughing, loud and musical, and God, he’s a terrible singer and maybe on the verge of getting tipsy. He takes a swig of beer, smiling against the cool glass. “What?” he asks innocently. “I can beat their performance in Central Park.” 

She catches her breath around a large grin. “Don’t consider a career change,” she laughs at him, wiping tears of mirth from the corners of her eyes. 

“Oh, never,” he says quickly. “I’m just happy to have a job. From here on out, I’m Richard Castle,” he promises with mock solemnity. With the early evening breeze tossing the loose strands of her hair, he doesn’t assess the truth in his own words. He doesn’t even think about them, but later he will. 

She can say something about his career, its ups and downs, his forgettable roles, but she just continues to smile, amused or bemused or something in between. She pushes her feet out, stretching her legs as her white wedges find a pillow in the grass, and she twirls her bottle between thumb and forefinger. Then she lifts her gaze to his profile, studying him through her lashes. “You’ll always be Captain Malcolm to me,” she says mischievously. 

His surprised bark of laughter draws several gazes their way, and Stana’s smile breathes life to the firelight. “Oh God,” he mutters self-deprecatingly. “I think I’m way past that.” 

She doesn’t say anything for a few moments, and he twists around to look at her. Her smile has melted into a shrewd look that turns warm under his stare. “Are you now?” she murmurs bemusedly like someone who knows something he doesn’t. 

“Maybe not,” he concedes and lifts both shoulders in a sheepish shrug. “I’m definitely more of a Richard Castle than a Malcolm Reynolds.” 

“I could see that,” she agrees and studies him with those eyes that can be as pointed and shockingly green as a blade of grass. It feels like she can see _through_ him, to the parts of him that are Castle, to the parts that want to pull some Beckett into her. “Andrew could see it right away.” 

“Beckett gave him more  

Her smile is small and private when she looks up at the sky, chasing from one star to the next. “It wasn’t just about choosing a Beckett. It became about choosing a Beckett for your Castle – more complicated problem.” 

He listens to the sound of her voice, to her words and this… this is trouble. “Stana,” he says, and her name brings her gaze back from the constellations to his. “I’m glad it’s you,” he says sincerely and reaches out to gently touch the bottom of his bottle to the middle of hers. 

She lifts her bottle until it clinks against his. “I’m glad too.” 

He won’t wear black t-shirts anymore for a while because he’s afraid of what it means.


	4. part four

**_part four  
_** _“Why be capable of feelings if we're not to have them? Why long for things if they're not meant to be ours?”  
_ **― Dean Georgaris,** Tristan & Isolde 

“Well isn’t this a glamorous affair,” Jon murmurs under his breath, tugging at his Windsor knot as his dark eyes roam over the crowd. “It feels like my TV exploded.” 

Seamus snorts into his champagne flute, and Nathan cracks a smile. ABC’s official season launch party is indeed a glitzy and glamorous affair, thronged by the network’s actors, actresses, directors, writers, crewmembers and producers. They organically section off into their different projects like schools of fish. He spots the _Desperate Housewives_ cast and crew, Shonda Rhimes and her legion of talented actors, and Sally Field looking elegant in a navy blue dress as she chats with Calista Flockhart. It’s hard to tell what’s real in a room filled with people who live their lives on a stage. He assesses smiles and hand gestures and thinks it’s impossible to read happiness. Lately, he finds himself grasping at happiness with a desperation that rattles him. He hasn’t _felt_ happy in years. Five? Ten? He can’t remember the last time his mood wasn’t tangled in the ups and downs of the business. He can’t remember _when_ he forgot to pursue happiness. 

It’s not the time or place to dwell on his newfound quest, so he distracts himself with people watching, only half-listening as Seamus and Jon continue to pick apart the guests. 

“Isn’t that the cast of that new comedy show, _Modern Family_?” 

“Yeah. And…” Jon trails off as if he’s lost his words. “Here comes the belle of the ball,” he announces regally. 

Seamus laughs and Nathan’s gaze snaps to the double doors where the proclaimed _belle of the ball_ has just cleared the entrance on the arm of a tall, dark-haired man. She’s striking in a strapless red dress that accentuates every curve of her long, lithe body. Her dark hair is pulled back into a half-knot, bangs combed off to one side, and she looks _stunning._ Nathan thinks he would have lost his words too. He doesn’t dwell on his breathing pattern as she makes her way through the room, stopping to chat with friends and acquaintances. He doesn’t fixate on the man by her side or the comfortable way her fingers sit on the inside of his forearm. 

He turns back to his companions, but she lingers in the edges of his vision like the glare from a bright light: blood red and dark hair and sun-kissed shoulders and flashes of that brilliant smile. And the shadow of a tall dark figure by her side that makes his stomach twist in a way he cannot begin to understand.    

“Is that Kris?” Jon asks, pointing with his chin at Stana and her mystery man. 

Nathan dons the face of nonchalance with practiced ease. Pretense is the very foundation of his livelihood. He blends in with the crowd on this makeshift stage with ease. “Who’s Kris?” he chimes in conversationally and snatches a flute of champagne off the tray of a passing waiter. He sips at the bubbly pink liquid slowly, fighting the impulse to down it in one shot. 

Seamus shrugs under his gray suit jacket. “Stana’s friend,” he says, and it’s much too vague for Nathan’s liking. He wants to know _everything._ “He picked her up from the studio a couple of weeks ago when we were the last ones filming,” he explains. 

“Hmm.” Jon hums, a frown puckering his brow. Curiosity is scribbled plainly across his features, and Nathan likes to think he’s not nearly that transparent – not that Jon has _anything_ to hide. He’s the only one having trouble drawing the lines where he ends and Richard Castle begins. The spillovers are threatening to consume him. 

When Andrew waves him over, he’s almost relieved to leave the conversation behind. He excuses himself and walks over to where Andrew and Terri are deep in conversation. He sips his champagne, and his gaze inadvertently finds Stana as she reaches _Castle_ ’s little corner of ABC’s star-studded event. She throws her arms around Tamala, and in her nude heels, she has a good seven or eight inches on the other woman. There’s some sort of introduction, but he doesn’t get to take it in because he’s suddenly standing between Terri and Andrew, drawn into their conversation about a potential new producer. 

He embroils himself in their debate because he needs to stop obsessing. For a few minutes, it works. He focuses on the producer dilemma, and he’s pushed everything else to the very back of his mind until Terri smiles brightly at someone behind him. He feels awareness crawl down his spine when the scent of her perfume steals into his air. Subtle. Lavender and Stana. He swallows thickly, heart thudding hard against his ribcage, and it makes absolutely no sense. None of this does. 

“Hello gorgeous!” Terri grins and steps aside to wrap the younger woman in a warm hug. “You look amazing!” 

“So do you!” Stana echoes and then turns the full blast of her dazzling smile on Nathan and Andrew. “Gentlemen,” she says with mock formality before drawing closer to give each of them a kiss on the cheek. 

“Hi Stana,” he intones just as Andrew says, “you look beautiful as always.” 

“Thank you,” she says graciously, smile softening into a slight curve of her lips. Up close she’s breathtaking, elegant, impeccably composed, and he wants to draw some of her into himself to soothe his tumultuous thoughts and wayward emotions. He wants to ask her everything. He wants to _know_. He _wants_ so much. Nathan smiles instead, tries to borrow some of her enigma – this startling ability to hold everything back and give just enough to leave him craving more. 

“What were you all looking so serious about?” Stana asks, dividing a glance between the three of them. 

“New producer,” Terri sighs dramatically and her warm brown gaze dances between Nathan and Stana. He reads something there that he doesn’t quite understand but still finds disconcerting. It’s a reverberation of her empathetic look in his backyard. Like she knows he’s been diagnosed with a terminal illness and doesn’t quite know how to break the news. Then she snaps out of it, seems to come to a decision that pleases her and smiles emphatically. “But enough of that. I love this song, and people are dancing. Shall we?” She looks up at Andrew. 

His immediate smile is heartwarming as he offers her his hand. “Can’t say no to that,” he mutters sheepishly. “Excuse us.” 

The writer and his muse blend into the small crowd of dancers, leaving a pretend writer and his fictitious muse in their wake. _Alone at last_ , Nathan muses to himself sardonically. For a full minute, he doesn’t look at her. He can’t think of anything to say. He’s _brooding_ , he realizes with an internal grimace. Silence sits heavily between them, and he can feel the burn of her curious gaze studying his shuttered expression. He’s not quite as adept as Stana at being an enigma. 

“Wanna dance?” she asks, edging past all of his thoughts with ease. 

Damn, she’s a master at this game, the name of which he can’t even begin to pronounce. He feels completely thrown off balance, unsettled, intrigued. He thinks it’s a terrible idea, but he finally looks at her, her face, the determined set of that sculpted delicate jaw, the slight curl of her full pink lips, the hint of a challenge in the green gleam of her eyes, and _God she’s so beautiful_. He physically aches with it. Lifting a single eyebrow, he grasps for control and finds it elusive. “I haven’t had a better offer all night,” he teases and holds his palm out face-up because he _can’t_ do anything else. 

Her smile widens imperceptibly as she presses her manicured fingers into his hand and he curls his own larger fingers around them. The short walk leaves his brain addled with a thousand riddles. They stop at the edge of the dance floor, and Stana turns into his arms, keeps her hand clasped in his and reaches for his shoulder with her other hand. Following her cue, he sits his free hand at her waist. It curves perfectly into his palm, so slender he could almost enclose her in both hands. He stares hard over her shoulder, his vision glazing over in a heroic effort to stop picturing his hands on her because it’s terribly inappropriate. And it’s entirely too threatening for his sanity and peace of mind. 

They’ve done this before, he thinks, as Rick and Kate, early in the first season of _Castle._ _This_ feels entirely different, electric, devoid of the prying eyes of a dozen cameras. 

When he feels her watching him again, he meets her gaze with his for a small eternity. She smiles at him breezily, and he knows he’s in way more trouble than he would ever admit to himself. 

“You clean up nice, Fillion. Trés chique,” she muses, the French words rolling off her tongue like an exotic melody. Her hand slides from his shoulder down to trace the lapel of his black suit jacket, red nails striking against the satiny fabric. 

He smiles back at her, his eyes crinkling at the sides. “You’re not half-bad yourself,” he jokes and lets his unabashed stare trail over her like he’s seeing her for the first time. “Some might even say you’re stunning,” he suggests teasingly. 

“What would _you_ say?” she challenges. Her eyes shine dangerously into his like a woman who knows the heart-stopping effect she has on every straight man within a twenty-foot radius. She’s lethal. 

For a full ten seconds, he holds her gaze, and he’s tongue-tied over her. Then he feels his eyebrows sink into a frown before he can curb the ominous expression. “Who’s your man friend?” he blurts out the question and immediately wishes he didn’t. 

She tenses against him, her movements turning rigid as her eyes dart away from his. Her impulse to be cagey is written all over her delicate features, but she doesn’t want to push him away. That much is clear, and he clings to that because it’s a good thing in a sea of uncertainty. “Kris?” she asks. He doesn’t nod because he knows her well enough to know she’s only buying time. “We’ve known each other forever,” she says finally, deliberately evasive. 

Nathan is frustrated enough to shake it out of her, but he smirks, poker face firmly in place. “Known each other forever?” he repeats and raises a single incredulous eyebrow. He’s good at making light of things, mocking and twisting words until mirth is the only thing recognizable in their exchanges. “What does that mean, Stana?” 

She hides behind a frown that says his tone confuses her. It’s almost like she doesn’t understand why he would care. Oblivion must be nice. “It means I’ve known Kris for as long as I can remember,” she tries again. 

“Known as in _known_? Are the two of you, you know?” he pushes and regrets it as soon as the words ring out between them – too telling, too much. Apparently, tonight is about letting his mouth run off ahead of his brain. _Damn it, Nathan. Damn. Shit. Fuck. F---_  

She actually laughs lightly at his poor little desperate heart. He loves the ring of it but resents it all the same. He’s had women vying for his attention for years, can’t remember the last time anyone said no to him. He can’t remember the last time he _wanted_ something so badly. 

She steps a little closer. It’s so subtle, anyone else would’ve missed it, but her scent wraps around him, intoxicates him. Her fingers press into his shoulder, curling towards his neck as she narrows her eyes at him. “Really, Nate. We _do_ _this_ now?” she prods disbelievingly like they should really be beyond that when it really means that they should never go there. 

“Well I like to think of myself as your work husband. And as your work husband, I have a right to know who you’re trolling around with behind my back,” he reasons flippantly, tone alight with humor. “I introduce you to all my mistresses,” he adds with faux indignation.   

This time her laughter rings louder and has her tipping her head back, exposing the tantalizing column of her throat to his hungry gaze. He doesn’t think it was that funny, but there’s some semblance of relief that they retreated from that perilous line relatively unscathed. Inexplicably drawn to her and her silvery laughter, he finds himself sliding his hand around her waist to the small of her back and pulling her closer. 

If she notices that their faces are suddenly inches apart, she doesn’t say anything. “In that case, I’ll make sure to introduce any and all future boyfriends to you,” she promises solemnly and relaxes into his tighter hold, still smiling as they continue their gentle sway to the music. 

He loathes the thought of her boyfriends, the thought of her with anyone else, but he grins boyishly, knows he looks pleased. He has a girlfriend, and this is all absolute madness that’s in his head. “Are you happy?” he wonders out loud, the words sobering him and sketching a slight frown across her unmarred brow.   

She takes a moment to mull it over then nods with magnificent certainty. “I am. I have sad days, but I’m happy. Are you?” There’s a quiet calm about her – the measured spaces of her words, her steady gaze, her self-assuredness – that makes him ache. 

“I’m indifferent on most days with some sad days and some happy days.” It’s amazing how good it feels to verbalize it so simply after internalizing it for months. Part of him wants to memorize the look on her face: the flash of curiosity and understanding. Another part of him wishes he never put it there. 

She sighs softly. “You’re too hard on yourself,” she says. “You’re always searching for something. Something more or better or something you don’t have. That’s not going to make you happy.” 

“What makes _you_ happy?” 

The smile she wears is slow and gentle. “Being alive. Waking up in the morning to a cup of coffee and a job that doesn’t feel like a job. Playing a role that inspires me. Working with people who inspire me. Having people in my life who love me for who I am, with or without everything I have and everything that comes with the territory,” she trails off, self-conscious at having revealed too much. Her cheeks glow with warmth, and he doesn’t even have the words to describe her. When her eyes find his, they’re bright with something he calls divine. “There’s so much to be grateful for.” 

Something inside him shifts, and his body roils with it. He’s speechless for a few seconds, grasping at words that he can’t seem to fashion into coherent thoughts or sounds. He wants to thank her. He wants to see the world through her eyes, wants it to change him so fundamentally he can never go back to this jaded creature that claws at living like it’s a solemn duty instead of a gift. He’s still grappling when Jon cuts in to their dance. 

“Stop hogging, Fillion,” he jokes on a wide grin that snaps Nathan out of his trance. 

He lets go of her, and she steps back, puts distance between them like this unsettles her too. Forcing a laugh, Nathan runs a hand through his hair. “Next dance is all yours,” he says. 

Stana laughs, her recovery much too quick as she steps into Jon’s loose hold. “Thanks for the dance, Nathan,” she says to his retreating back. He twists his head around to smile at her, but she’s already giggling at something Jon tells her. 

The rest of the evening passes in a blur. He watches her dance with Jon twice, with Andrew once, and with Kris twice. She catches his gaze in fleeting moments like she feels his stare on her, and she flashes him little smiles that tell him nothing but make him want everything. 

*** 

An hour after he sheds his evening clothes and sinks into his mattress with a Cormac McCarthy book, his phone vibrates on the nightstand. He presses a hand into the book to mark his progress and picks up the phone to find a text message from Terri. 

_Terri E. Miller: … and under Merriam-Webster’s definition of chemistry ;)_

He opens up the attachment. It’s a photo from tonight of him and Stana dancing. Her head is thrown back in laughter, and he’s smiling at her, his body curved above her like a human shield. He’s holding her way too close, but the press of her against him is hidden in swathes of expensive fabric. He looks _smitten_. He’s still pouring over the logistics when Stana replies. 

 _Stana Katic: Tsk tsk Terri. Colluding with the paparazzi? ;)_  

 _Terri E. Miller: Never! This stays between the three of us – and Andrew because I’m being a good muse and giving him script ideas. There’s a formal in caskett’s future._  

He hits the reply-all button and rewrites his text about ten times before sending it. 

 _Nathan Fillion: I know, ladies – I look smashing in a suit. So much so that I have chemistry with myself._  

_Terri E. Miller: LOL. Funny but true. ;)_

It’s another ten minutes, and he’s almost engrossed in _The Sunset Limited_ again when his phone buzzes with a private text from Stana. 

_Stana Katic: You look smashing in black._


	5. part five

**_part five  
_ ** _“No one ever fell in love gracefully.”  
_ **— Connie Brockway,** The Bridal Season

The heat wraps around him like cellophane.

He feels trapped in the suffocating humidity even as the makeshift air conditioner whirs pitifully from the corner of their shared trailer. The hiss of cool air wages a losing battle against the glare of sunlight spilling past the cracks in the shutters and dancing in jagged golden lines across Stana’s graceful form as she moves around the narrow kitchenette. There’s soft tinkering and confident chopping, and the way she glides from one end of the counter is as hypnotic as an effortless dance. She’s everywhere at once, impervious to the lick of scorching sunshine, completely taken by her task. It fascinates him, the way she devotes her entire being to every little undertaking. He can’t imagine what it would feel like to be the subject of such single-minded focus, but he often catches himself concocting a scenario that makes him the center of her fleeting universe. The possibilities take his breath away. It’s almost enough to make him forget about the sweltering heat, but it’s _October_ for God’s sake.

October is supposed to be bright leaves and crisp autumn air, not heat waves and humidity.

He decidedly _hates_ Los Angeles.

“You doing okay there, Canada?”

Her teasing voice carries over the white noise of lazy late afternoons, lifting with a curl of amusement at the edges and a gentle lilt that sways like a whimsy. She throws a flippant look at him over her shoulder, dark eyes alight with mischief. Nathan feels an answering smile coil inside his mouth just as she emerges from behind the kitchen counter, touting two glasses of something pale red and _cold_. There’s nowhere else he’d rather be, and the silent confession costs him a heartbeat of desperate longing. He nods briskly in belated response and allows the subtle swing of his blue gaze to sweep over her until she closes the distance between them and presses the perspiring glass into his palm. Clad in a pair of denim shorts and a clingy gray t-shirt, she’s all breathtakingly long tanned limbs and tousled, unaffected temptation.

“Watermelon juice,” Stana tells him, smile growing into something taunting and indulgent.

“Thank you,” he mutters and immediately tips the glass against his lips. The smooth juice slides down his throat in a refreshing gush of icy sweetness. An embarrassingly short few seconds later, he places the empty glass on the small kitchen table with a quiet thud. “That was really good,” he says inanely, struggles to keep the note of self-consciousness from creeping into his voice, but her barely-there smirk tells him she’s onto him.

“The perks of trailer sharing,” she jokes and daintily sips from her own cup.

He can think of at least three other perks for trailer sharing that all involve those toned legs around him and more creative ways to sweat the heat wave away, but he swallows the words before his brain can string them together. “I’m still figuring out my value-add,” he admits solemnly.

Stana lets out a startled breath of laughter. “Seriously?” she sputters, eyeing him over the rim of her glass like he’s lost his mind – like it’s _her_ value-add that’s questionable.

“Oh excuse me, I keep forgetting how much you like to stare at my pretty face.” He grins and wiggles his eyebrows suggestively, and he hates how much easier it is to make light of things. Maybe he’s always been evasive. Maybe it’s something she’s taught him over the past year.

“Definitely the number one perk,” she laughs and shakes her head at him, soft brown waves flirting with the sharp angles of her jaw. He wants to brush her hair back and press his lips to that wicked jaw. She slides his copy of _Vampire Weekend_ over the table, snapping him back to reality. “Let’s rehearse this one last scene before we call it a day,” she suggests.

He bites back a question about her plans for the evening because he’s skirting lines, and boundaries keep blurring in and out of focus. It doesn’t stop the question from burning in his gut like an ulcer. It doesn’t stop him from agonizing over whoever is sharing her pillows and bed sheets. “Sure,” he says as she walks around him to place her glass on the kitchen counter and returns with a paper towel that she hands him with a half-smile.

“You look like a melting snowman,” she teases.

With a surprised bark of laughter, he mops at his slick forehead. It’s a sloppy, futile effort, and he’s a little embarrassed at how badly he handles the heat, but there’s so much laughter lurking behind those cryptic eyes that he’s alright with being a spectacle. “But so much sexier,” he says in baritone and winks at her when her twinkling eyes narrow into his.

“Mhm,” is her only response as she picks up her highlighted copy of the script.

“Alright, K-Becks, I’m ready,” he announces, leans back into the plastic chair, and lifts his loafer-clad feet to the table, crossing them at the ankles. Richard Castle in repose. 

“K-Becks?” she visibly grimaces around an irrepressible smile. “Beckett would _hate_ that nickname,” she declares.

“I think she would secretly love it,” he counters and lifts a single provocative eyebrow.

Stana scoffs and favors him with a very Beckett-like eye roll. “You clearly don’t know her very well.”

He contemplates her for a few seconds, lingering on her miffed features and the color of her hair in the sunshine. He loves how it’s growing out in gentle tumbles, softening all her jagged edges. “She doesn’t know herself very well,” he says finally, and he’s not sure what that means because his breach of lines is starting to foray into Stana-Beckett territory. The shared mannerisms throw him off balance, and he knows it’s all in his head. It’s ridiculous to think Stana doesn’t know herself very well. She’s the most grounded, well-rounded person he’s met in the business.  

She shrugs at the truth in that. “She’s getting there,” she says with complete, unshakeable faith in the trajectory of her alter ego. “She’s a little damaged, a little scarred, rough around the edges, but she’ll figure it out.”

He frowns and presses his lips together. “There’s so much I still can’t figure out about her,” he admits.

“I think that’s the point,” she says wryly, and he volleys back by mimicking one of her legendary eye-rolls. With a resigned sigh, she rolls up her script and leans against the kitchen counter. “Okay, what can’t you figure out?”

Oh, this is going to be fun. Double entendres and shifting lines. It’s almost as if he needs more fodder for his overactive imagination and tacit obsession. He jumps into it nonetheless because he loves to listen to her intelligently pick apart the psyche of their characters. “For starters, why can’t she just admit that she wants Castle around?”

She hums low in her throat and considers him for a second. “I think the fact that she’s _fake_ mad about three more books is her way of admitting it. She just can’t verbalize it right now,” she explains. “It’ll give him too much leverage over her.”  

“Leverage? You think he wants _leverage_? He basically can’t see straight when she’s around. She has him wrapped around her little finger.”

She laughs softly. “If only Beckett knows,” she ruminates. “She’s afraid she’ll tip her hand and make her feelings obvious.”

His grin is unrepentant in the least. “I don’t know. I think it’s pretty obvious that she wants him.”

Her olive-rimmed eyes pass over him in unbridled amusement. “Does she now?” she muses, whispering something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like _men_.

“What?” he gripes with a too-deep frown. “You don’t think so?” he prods.

“She finds him attractive,” she concedes. “She’s also star-struck by him.”

“An elegant way of saying she wants him,” he surmises.

“I don’t think she’s quite there yet. She’s still struggling with her feelings, and he’s just _too much._ It’s not easy for her. She’s not used to having good things happen to her in her personal life. And there’s also the matter of where _he_ stands.”

He snorts inelegantly. “He’s _obsessed_ with her, so why not just go for it and figure things out as they come?”

Tilting her head to the side, she ponders him long enough to make him feel naked. It seems like she’s not going to say anything else because her presence eats up the silence like a flame burning through oxygen. “Things are never that simple, are they?” she says at last.

He holds her gaze until it might mean something. “Why can’t they be?” he asks, voice a notch lower, studying the flicker of something that looks like a mélange of panic and surprise contort her delicate features.

She turns away and the fragile rapport crumbles. Just like that, she’s back to the clinical, measured spaces of her Beckett analysis. “Well, for starters his parade of women and two ex-wives would send any sane woman running in the opposite direction,” she reasons. “He’s over the top and basically her antithesis. I don’t think he understands her enough.”

“He’d understand her a lot more if she lets him in,” he argues, and he needs to stop thinking of himself as Richard Castle because he’s so close to tipping _his_ hand. 

“At this point, she’s not ready for him to be anything more than her friend. I don’t think either of them is ready.” 

Nathan lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “I think he’d try to figure it out with her at this point. He cares about her a lot. She’s different than any other woman – any other _person_ – he’s ever known or been with. She fascinates him.” 

She smiles, something slight and whimsical, dreamy almost, and he thinks it’s the most beautiful of her smiles. “I think they could be something _great_. It’s going to take them some time to get there because they’re so incredibly different,” she lets out a long loose breath like she wishes she could shake some sense into them. “It takes people like Castle and Beckett a long time to understand and appreciate the value they bring to each others’ lives.” 

“Sounds like Andrew’s plan,” he mutters quietly, lips curling in a half-smile, and he dwells on how much he loves the way she thinks, the way she puts her thoughts into words and the way her words twist unpredictably with hints of an Eastern-European tongue, keeping him on his toes. 

“Yeah,” she laughs. “Alright, let’s get this show on the road.” She pushes off the counter, unrolls the papers in her hands and quickly looks over them.

“Let’s,” he echoes and picks up the script, pretending it’s his prop for the scene. He settles into Richard Castle’s skin, reasserts his captivation with Beckett, his love for Alexis, his affection for his mother, his failed marriages and complex history. He lets it all rush in until he insinuates himself firmly in Castle’s mind. It’s disturbingly easy to wear Richard Castle like a second skin, sometimes more familiar than his own.

Stana makes her entrance by nudging his feet with her hip, pushing them off the table. He loses balance for a split-second and catches a glimmer of amusement in her sly Beckett smirk. This is harder to do without a swivel chair.

“Hot on the case, Castle?” she asks, and the pun of the sweeping heat wave isn’t lost on her.

Lifting his gaze from the script, he gives her a look full of Castle’s disarming eagerness. “On the case of a good read!” he raves. “It’s actually not bad.”

But Kate is bursting with her own news, greener pastures, clues and the beauty of the hunt. Her body is strung with the zeal of a predator, and it never ceases to amaze him – the little cues in her acting that bring Beckett to life. “Esposito found Morgan Lockerby,” she announces, barely concealing the thread of triumph in her voice.

His gaze lights up with realization of puzzle pieces falling into place, feeding off of her enthusiasm. “You mean Morlock,” he tells her cleverly, gesturing at his script. On set, it would be a comic with a depiction of the shady Morlock.

Stana leans over his shoulder to study the faux comic, and he feels her warmth – her _heat_ – seep into his air. She looks so cool, so collected that he never considered how the temperature spike is affecting her. “Vixen was right,” she murmurs intently, and she really is much, _much_ too close, her breath a fruity ghost against the shell of his ear. They turn towards each other in unison, and she does _her thing_. She stares deep into his eyes, her own dark eyes mysterious and shot with hazel and onyx, and he could swear her pupils widen in anticipation. Stana’s eyes. Maybe Beckett’s. He suddenly can’t tell. Then her gaze darts down to his lips quickly before finding his again. It’s a _kiss me_ triangle. Eyes-lips-eyes. It’s bordering on cruel. His body responds instinctively, draws closer until there’s barely a breath between them. He can taste her on his tongue, and this hopeless wanting drowns him. He nearly kisses her, but her eyes turn into Stana’s eyes, registering confusion, and she looks like she’s about to bolt before he snaps out of it and remembers he has a line to say.

“You smell like lavender,” he rasps huskily.

For a split-second, she frowns, even more puzzled, and then she bursts out laughing, her hand flying up to cover the infectious sound. And oh _God, he did not just say that_. “That’s… not your line,” she breathes between fits of laughter.

He drops his script and rubs the back of his neck. “Damn!” he hisses, allowing a sheepish smile to cover his discomfiture. “My nose got a little confused there. It’s the heat, lack of oxygen makes my brain cells die, a slow, painful, humiliating death. Plus you do smell like lavender, but Beckett smells like… cherries! God, yes, cherries. Damn it. You smell nothing like cherries. And I should… probably shut up now,” he rambles, sitting back in his chair like a reprimanded child.

Her smile is all perfect teeth and reined in laughter. “No! Don’t shut up, please keep digging…”

The dancing hilarity in her gaze has him grinning broadly. “Now you’re just being mean,” he whines.

“I wish I could record this stuff and come up with my very own blooper reel,” she laments, shaking her head from side to side.

“Ugh, if it wasn’t a hundred degrees in here and borderline workplace harassment, I would so tackle you right now and tickle you until you cry mercy.”

She giggles, and it reminds him of a little girl – precious and mischievous. “Maybe we should call it a night,” she says. “Go home, crank up the air conditioning and make your lady a nice dinner.”

He swallows a little roughly and takes a plunge. “Make _myself_ a nice dinner,” he corrects. “My lady is well… no longer _my_ lady,” he tells her and feels stupid for sharing the incredibly personal tidbit in light of Stana’s affinity for privacy.

“Oh,” she murmurs, lips finally downturned as she looks away, her eyes moving from the sink to the cupboards to the counter and then to a spot just over his shoulder. “I’m sorry to hear that. Are you alright?”

He catches himself before he chuckles because she’s genuinely concerned and he’s strangely touched. Especially since she seems to have no inkling of his past – and maybe present – as a shameless womanizer, flitting from one fleeting romance to the next. He finds that he likes the way she sees him as someone better, more sensitive, and more emotionally intelligent than he’s ever been. He wants to be that person. “I’m fine,” he says softly.

“If you want company while drowning your sorrows in some of the best Russian vodka, I know just the place,” she tells him, her voice gentle even as her words become lighthearted, and the urge to hug her overwhelms him.

“I might take you up on that.”

She walks across the small space to the couch and picks up her purse, tucks the script into it and slings it over her shoulder. “Don’t be shy,” she teases, glancing at her phone as she readjusts the tote against her side. “My ride is here, so I have to run. But seriously, Russian vodka, life’s very own medicine.”

“ _Seriously_.” He laughs after her retreating form.


	6. part six

**_part six  
_ ** _“Hearts may break, but hearts are the toughest of muscles, able to pump for a lifetime, seventy times a minute, and scarcely falter along the way.  
_ _Even dreams, the most delicate and intangible of things, can prove remarkably difficult to kill.”_   
**— Neil Gaiman,** Fragile Things

“Who’s most like their character in real life? Molly, I’ll start with you.”

There’s a beat of silence. It’s uncomfortably warm on the stage, oppressive under the glare of magenta-tinged stage lights and a legion of curious gazes. He’s used to the limelight, has been in it more times than he cares to remember, but tonight is _different_. His whole body thrums with awareness, charged by the heat of her proximity. She’s perched low in her chair to his right, elegant and reserved – uncomfortable. He’s so attuned to her that he’s come to anticipate the subtle shifts of her graceful limbs, and he can almost _feel_ the buzz of her nervous energy coursing through his veins.

“I think Nathan,” Molly says finally, eliciting enough laughter to justify the slightly miffed expression on his face. Out of the corners of his eyes, he watches Stana’s lips curve gently in agreement or amusement. “He’s so much like Castle in real life, except… no, you’re a little less mature actually,” she continues, and the gentle laughter escalates. “Just a little bit,” she soothes.

“That’s fair,” Nathan says with a nod of approval. He knows he’s Richard Castle – on many, many levels. If Castle were in his seat tonight, he would be just as preoccupied with the stunning Kate Beckett’s alter ego sitting so close within reach and yet still light years away. Oblivious to his rapt fascination, Stana has taken to staring at her lap, toying with her hands like she’s not quite sure what to do with them. She says little in the way of anything, but the audience loves her, hangs on her every breath and unspoken word – _kind of like he does_ , he admits to himself. As crowds go, it’s not the biggest he’s come across, but he knows she finds it overwhelming, especially with most of them staring at _her_ in adoration. That part he wholeheartedly understands. He’s known her for the better part of two years and still catches himself gazing at her with that same mixture of awe and admiration. The attention unsettles her. At a very fundamental level, she’s thankful for it. He sees it in the glint of amazed appreciation in her dark gaze that comes out of her in bursts of disbelieving gratitude. Ironically, she doesn’t quite grasp _why_ people love her. He doesn’t understand _how_ she couldn’t know.

Molly is still going on about the confusing swing of his personality between Nathan and Castle. It feels deeply personal, but he knows this is all just part of the show. There’s a kernel of truth everyone recognizes, but no one knows how deeply entrenched in Richard Castle’s psyche he is. “When it comes to you know like the scooters that he puts – um what do you put on them? The… to make them go faster? The – um?”

“Rockets?” their host suggests.

“Yeah, he puts rockets on his scooters and stuff, so I definitely have to say that it’s Nathan. But we all pretty much match our characters. I think that Susan is a little more classy.”

He’s relieved when the conversation takes a turn and gets deflected to Seamus. Like Detective Kevin Ryan, Seamus is upstanding, comically awkward sometimes, and kindhearted. Nothing scandalous there. Rueben takes them down that road, but apparently it’s not as entertaining as picking apart how badly _he_ toes the line between himself and his alter ego because less than a minute later, Seamus makes it about Nathan again.

“I think Castle is a lot more like you than anything you’ve played before.”

“Even _Firefly_?” Tom Bergeron asks, a hint of challenge coloring his voice. Diehard _Firefly_ fans all over the world would dispute this with their every breath.

“Absolutely,” Seamus says.  

And it’s absolutely true. He remembers Stana’s face in the sunset in his backyard, months ago, lit by dying embers and streaks of crimson sunlight. The way her gaze glittered emerald and golden at his quiet confession. _I’m definitely more of a Richard Castle than a Malcolm Reynolds._ He remembers the smell of that afternoon with stark clarity – lavender, cold beer, Stana and summer blossoms. The conversation takes a turn for the derogatory then, and he plays off his colleagues’ remarks with witty comebacks. They make jokes about his _hard ass_ , and Tamala pitches in, playing up the air of flirtatiousness that underlies their friendship. Tom then asks Andrew a serious question about Castle and Beckett, about their dance and the chase and how difficult it is to balance that and not give in to the obvious sexual tension. Andrew gives his usual rehearsed answer. It’s a lot and very little at the same time until Rob Bowman jumps in.

“I also think that Beckett comes across as – I think she _is_ – but she appears to be more sophisticated – she is absolutely more sophisticated in the game of boy meets girl, and she seems to have more steerage on the chase. She’ll throw bait out there for him. We had an episode on recently in which she suggested she might know more than she’s ever let on about what might be her closet in terms of leather and…”

“Oh, right, right, the dominatrix episode,” Tom cuts in.

“Nathan had swallowed the hook… Castle swallowed the hook instantaneously, and she just played him the whole episode.” Rob mimics the motions of fishing with his arms, and Nathan wonders how much of that name-slip is everyone realizing that his relationship with Stana pretty much mirrors Castle’s relationship with Beckett. “Because one of the things that’s wonderful about Castle is that he is at his root simply a man, and men are very disarmed by attractive women especially intelligent attractive women, and she plays him like a fiddle. But the root of it has to be that the chase has to go on, and she knows that. She knows that the fun is he’s always gonna come after her, and she wants to make sure that she has some – I guess control over the distance and how fast the chase is going. You know sometimes she shuts him down and other times she gets him running.”

 _Oh, Stana._ Nathan is still processing how much of this actually is about Stana and him when Tom turns to them. “Now Nathan and Stana, do you agree always with the pacing of the relationship or do you wish that it would take more breaks or move forward faster?”

He pauses, knows she’s waiting for him to answer, and he tries to take a step outside of himself. He tells himself to look at things objectively, dispassionately. “I believe that caution is the word,” he begins. “You don’t want to go too far too fast,” he says slowly, and part of him maybe believes that. He likes to think it’s something she has inspired in him, that it’s only a matter of time before _everything_. He turns towards Andrew. “Very accurate what you said about when you cross certain bridges, you can’t go back so I think that dance – the delicateness of that dance – is extremely important.”

“How about for you Stana?” Tom presses.

She’s silent for longer than is typically acceptable – always the renegade. Her silences are powerful, and she’s mastered the art of using them to her advantage, making people squirm in their seats. When she finally speaks, he can almost feel the audience collectively hold their breaths. “I think there’s nothing sexier than swordplay.” She bites lightly at the tip of her finger. The sweeping hush is broken by nervous giggling. A hot rush of blood pounds in his ears, and he thinks that might be the sexiest thing ever put in words delivered by that soft, silky bedroom voice. And seriously she shouldn’t do that. It’s too much – too little. He just can’t – _breathe_. She’s _such a tease_.

“Wow,” Tom Bergeron breathes to a louder echo of laughter. 

No, really. _Wow_.

“ _Everyday_ ,” Nathan jokes, and it’s a terrible attempt at deflection because it _is_ everyday. _Oh, Stana_.   

“Is there any way my character can be brought back from the dead?”

***

When he finds her, she’s tucked into a dark leather armchair in one of the break rooms backstage, long legs crossed primly, the fingers of one hand ensnared in the heavy silver chain around her neck, phone propped between cheek and shoulder. He takes her in for a few precious seconds, his heart beating wildly in his chest, caught somewhere between bravery and recklessness. She tips her chin in a nod as if the caller can see her, and the soft incandescent light snags on the deliciously sharp angle of her jaw. Then a small smile, just the barest curl at the corner of her lips.

God, she’s so beautiful.

“Yeah it shouldn’t be a problem. Try not to be late,” she says, and the sound of her voice pulls at him. He must have made some sort of commotion because she looks up suddenly to find him in the doorway. Her startled gaze brightens into something welcoming, and a fuller smile steals across her lips. The desire to feel the curve of it under his thumb makes him dizzy. He thinks he smiles back when she covers the mouthpiece to whisper _hey_ to him across the empty room. “Great, okay. I’ll see you there in a bit! Bye.” The phone slides from its perch into her palm.

“Hey, I didn’t think you were still here,” he lies. Tom Bergeron had wrapped up _Castle’s_ first Paley Center panel over half an hour ago, and almost everyone had already left. He knew she hadn’t. He was keeping tabs on the single exit, building up the courage to get her alone before all this is over because _tonight_ – tonight – is his crucible.  

She looks away from the steadiness of his gaze, shakes her head like she’s trying to clear it and runs her palm over the back of her neck. “I just needed a break from the…” she trails off, self-conscious hands meeting in her lap. She twists her fingers.

“All the love?” he teases gently.

Her eyes snap to his in surprise, and they glitter like something out of his dreams, gleams of uncertainty and indecision. “Maybe,” she sighs around an embarrassed smile.

“You don’t have to hide that from me, you know.”

“I know,” she says quickly – too quickly. “I _know_ ,” a little more emphatically, and her vibrant gaze follows him into the air-conditioned room.

He goes straight for the armchair next to hers and plops into it unceremoniously. The material gives a soft whoosh of protest, punctuating the silence.

“Some people think I don’t want it or don’t… don’t appreciate it,” she explains, her words tinged with frustration.

“I know that’s not true,” he reassures her. “It’s going to take you some time to get comfortable with it. It doesn’t mean you don’t love that they love you.”

She lets the words sink in. Another beat of silence. More hand-twisting. He needs everything to be lighter, but she needs _this_ now. “Thank you,” she says at last, simple and sincere.

“You’re welcome,” he answers softly, drawing a smile from her that fades in the silence that follows. He wants to say _something_ – everything – but his courage flees under her gentle scrutiny. And he’s always been afraid of rejection. It’s the curse of a hyped ego, and in the end he says the first thing he can think of to keep her there. “I learned a new trick,” he blurts out. It takes a second for his grin to sweep across his face, blue eyes glimmering with newfound inspiration. “Amanda, the makeup artist, was showing me how to read palms. Fascinating stuff, palmistry. Here give me your left hand.” Turning in his chair, he holds both his palms face up over the arms of their chairs.

She hesitates, her gaze shifting between his upturned hands and his eager eyes. “I should leave soon – maybe…”

“Oh come on,” he wheedles. “It’ll take like two minutes. I’m _really_ good at it,” he promises.

“Sure you are.” Rolling her eyes good-naturedly, she reluctantly surrenders her hand to both his. The gentle weight of her knuckles against the inside of his fingers is electrifying, but he’s become especially adept at hiding his reactions to everything Stana. With a ruse of professionalism, he ceremoniously clears his throat and cradles her hand loosely in a light grip, turning it until the lines make sense. His right index finger traces three lines etched into her skin. “Hmm,” he hums low in his throat and glances up to find her staring at their hands with an unreadable expression on her face. Something that’s neither Stana nor Beckett. He swallows tightly and swoops his fingertips over the line closest to her fingers. “This is the heart line,” he tells her. The tip of his index finger pauses at the base of hers. “Look at that, a long, deep line. You _love_ love. And it’s good to you for the most part. It’s satisfying, and it brings you joy.” He follows the deep curve with his fingertip. “See these little lines here?”

She leans closer and hums in affirmation.

“Somebody’s going to hurt you,” he says, rubbing his thumb against the offending lines as if he can erase them. “Want me to wring his neck for you?” he asks half-seriously.

Stana laughs softly at that and quirks an eyebrow. “I might take you up on that one day.”

He looks up from her palm to meet the dancing mirth in her hazel-green eyes. “You do that,” he says with a boyish smile before turning his attention back to the task at hand. “Now this next line,” he begins and moves to slide his thumb down over said line. “That’s the head line. Yours says you’re creative and spontaneous. You love a good adventure and new things. Intellectual accomplishments are a lot more important to you than physical ones.” 

“You really paid attention to this palm-reading thing,” she remarks, and beneath the obvious teasing, she sounds impressed.

“It’s a real crowd pleaser.” He’s rewarded by another burst of melodic laughter. Under his fingertips, he maps more conflict lines. “You see according to Amanda, all these little lines mean you’re going to have to make a lot of big decisions in your life.”

“I still want to know what she told _you_ ,” she challenges.

He shakes his head. “Sensitive information,” he whispers conspiratorially. “Stop distracting me,” he chides her with faux irritation and drags four fingertips lightly across her palm. She sucks in a shallow breath and clamps her fingers over his to stop him. “Sorry,” he mutters as her fingers unfurl, letting his go.

“No – um,” she swallows and clears her throat softly. “It just tickles,” she says hastily. “So what’s the third line?” she asks to divert his attention from the irregular pattern of her uneven breaths.

“Life,” he replies easily, emphasizing the word by stroking the line from the cradle of her thumb to the base of her wrist. “So much life,” he murmurs. “You’re stronger than you look, a little too enthusiastic sometimes. It’s left you with some disappointments, but you get better at it.”

“Doesn’t it tell you how long I’m going to live?” she jokes, and the sparkle is back in her gaze because whatever happened a minute ago, she has it all back under control.

“Doesn’t work like that,” he sighs in mock disillusionment, and they seem to both notice that he’s still holding on to her hand at the same moment. “That’s all –”

“What else –”

They start at the same time, and when their gazes meet they both laugh self-consciously.

“Unfortunately, that is mostly everything Amanda taught me,” he says after a few moments and carefully folds the fingers of the hand beneath hers. The insides of his knuckles catch the fine ridges of hers, and she bends her fingers into his wordlessly. A breath trembles in his chest, and something swells inside him, ready to burst free. With her hand still clasped inside his, he holds her gaze steadily. “Want to grab a drink somewhere? You know, a nightcap.” The smile he flashes at her is his most heartfelt, charming expression, but she looks stricken as she tugs her hand free of his. His heart plummets to somewhere in the vicinity of his stomach, and he feels like a teenager again – gawky and insecure. And he’s a movie star for God’s sake. There’s no excuse for the sick feeling in the pit of his gut.

She gives him a brave, trembling smile. “I… uh, it’s Kris’s birthday tonight, and I’m taking him to this little bistro – I have a thing planned,” she surmises, glossing over the details because she _knows_. He sees something in her expression that’s all Beckett, knowing and sympathetic. Because she _knows_. It throws him completely off-balance, makes him feel strangely defensive. Oblivion he can deal with. Oblivion – he can even justify. But this, _this_ is her leading him on. His brain goes on a vicious streak, hurling a thousand silent accusations.

“Oh,” he breathes, and then he smiles again, something bright and contrived and voracious. “Sounds fun,” he says, voice infused with false warmth. In his silent rage, he’s exceptionally good at pretense. She starts to breathe easier, falling for this façade of nonchalance. “Maybe some other time,” he suggests. “You still owe me that Russian vodka.”

She laughs a little at the memory, and it takes the edge off her nervousness. “I’m actually running late. I should get going.”

“I’ll walk you out,” he offers, coming to his feet and holding out his hand to her. Ever the gentleman.

“Thanks,” she smiles and lets him help her to her feet. She hooks her arm through his, and he ignores the painful flutter of tenderness in his chest.

He stops when they reach the exit. “You need a ride?” he asks graciously.

“No, I’m alright.” She checks her phone quickly then looks up at him with a wealth of emotion. “Thanks again, Nathan,” she says, and even in heels, she presses up on her tiptoes to wrap her slender arms around his neck in a friendly hug. He doesn’t pull away, but his body refuses to participate – far too betrayed and less practiced at deception than his mind. When she pulls away, her hazel eyes are warm. “For everything,” she adds.

“Anytime.”

She nods. “See you tomorrow.” Giving him a small wave, she turns around and walks away.

And it’s all _finally_ over, he thinks.

It’s way past time to move on.


	7. part seven

**_part seven  
_ ** _“We are leaving some things unsaid,  
And we are breathing deeper instead.”  
_ **―** _The Fray,_ Unsaid

No surprise, she hears his laughter first.

“Nathan has this magical laugh. It’s the most joyful contagious sound,” Susan said to her when they finished shooting _The Mistress Always Spanks Twice_ , wistful smile curling her lips and carving happy lines around the corners of her eyes. Not long after, Stana became infatuated with the rich timbre of his laugh, so she knows the sound well before she clears the doorway to the Four Seasons’ patio where a small crew and the man in question are milling around an empty pool. She imagines the twinkle of mirth in his eyes, and her stomach flutters in anticipation. It’s something she doesn’t spend time acknowledging, but it sits in the base of her spine – a striking understanding of how he affects her and how well she manages everything about this and them.

It’s a little bit of Beckett spilling into her life, a small price to pay on most days.

“Here comes the only beautiful thing about this photo-shoot,” he says as if he hasn’t been avoiding her for the better part of two weeks. But when she meets his gaze, her sassy retort dies on her tongue because she gets her first look at that deep blue shirt, the way it makes the cobalt burst out of his eyes, and at him in his tailored gray suit jacket, and _God_ – she’s becoming dangerously aware of everything about him.

 _Fuck_ , she thinks. “Don’t sell yourself short,” she teases. “Especially not in that shirt,” she adds, thinks that should be appropriate enough.

He slants a half-smile in her direction, a lingering afterthought that sits like an ellipsis in the staggered awkwardness of the past twelve days. Two Mondays ago, what she’s come to acknowledge as _the tipping point_ turned him into this savagely polite diplomat with impeccable manners, perfect hair and well-timed smiles. That morning marked a new beginning for them – a violation of their coffee and lines ritual, an insincere apology, a flimsy excuse and a haunting absence from their trailer.

“Munawar, I only see one chair,” Nathan points out to the photographer, derailing her thoughts. He stands back on his heels, hands casually tucked into the front pockets of his jeans, his gaze trained on the setup. “If we’re doing individual shoots, I’ll come back later.”

 _So eager to flee_. The offensive single white chair is a small, flimsy thing

that’s made of unceremonious wood and belongs in someone’s backyard. It sits unassumingly on cobblestones, framed by glossy green leaves and puny white blossoms. She doesn’t think much of it or of Munawar’s distracted nod when he looks up from the screen on the back of his bulky black camera. 

“No, please stay put. We’re gonna do a couple of shots with the two of you first then we’ll do individual portraits.” 

“One chair,” Nathan repeats, still baffled apparently, and Stana is torn somewhere between amusement and irritation. 

She takes a deep breath and steps into his line of vision with a playful smile. _This_ is easy. It always has been. She just wishes it didn’t have to be so orchestrated. “That’s what laps are for,” she tells him, an edge of challenge tinting her voice, the implication tightening the bones of her ribcage around her insides. Everything hurts a little, but it’s almost worth it when he finally lets their eyes connect in a messy collision of burning questions – unspoken. 

He holds her gaze far longer than he wants to, and the depth of his ambivalence leaves her winded. When he frowns and looks away, lips pressed into a thin, narrow line, she knows it’s because he’s revealed too much. Something falls into place, and his dark expression melts into another one of those iridescent forged smiles that she’s come to dread. “ _So_ many Santa jokes right now,” he jokes as Munawar ushers him towards the chair.   

“Okay, beautiful,” the photographer calls out and assesses her with a quick flick of his liquid dark eyes. Her black suit and lead gray, sequined blouse are hardly the stuff of dream photo-shoots, but that’s the least of her worries when Munawar makes his next request. “I want you to sit on his lap with both of you facing me, so your back is to his chest,” he says and makes a gesture with his free hand prodding her towards the chair, now completely hidden by Nathan’s frame. 

Nathan looks up at her with a flash of uncertainty too quick for her to pick apart, and then he’s all efficiency and professionalism as he drops his hands to his sides. She slides onto his lap easily, squirms for a few seconds to get comfortable and tries to relax. It’s almost impossible with her heart pounding in painful bursts against her ribs, which she realizes is ridiculous. They work together everyday, but Castle and Beckett are so far from a place where physical contact would be natural that touching him in non-platonic ways still feels too personal, too much like it’s _her_ – not Beckett. She draws in a deep calming breath. Munawar makes everything considerably less tense as he fusses about their arrangement, nudging a knee into position, pressing her shoulders back, tilting Nathan’s head over her shoulder, stacking his arms around her waist. He prattles off a narration of what he wants them to look like, urging them to be Rick and Kate. She can’t stop fixating on how far Kate is from a place where she would snuggle into Richard Castle’s lap. But it helps. She feels like a puppet, completely detached from her own body. 

When they’re posed to his satisfaction, he runs back to his camera. In Nathan’s wooden arms, she’s frigid, her smile tight and forced, her muscles tense, ready to spring. Munawar clicks away for a couple of minutes during which she tilts her chin obediently. Their photographer stops abruptly and throws his hands into the air, looking every bit the dismayed artist, frustrated and displeased. 

“Okay, I need a little more affection,” he protests. “Nathan, pull her a little closer. You,” he directs those dark eyes at her. “Hold his hands, show me more teeth. He’s _your lover_. Smile from your eyes,” he instructs. 

She curbs her answering frown. Nathan sighs heavily behind her, his warm breath curling against her ear, and she fights the urge to press her shoulder to her cheek, hiding the gooseflesh prickling on the skin closest to his lips. Beneath her, his entire body loosens, large hands sliding decisively over her stomach, pressing low on her abdomen. Her breath stutters to a still, and he’s completely oblivious as he pulls her in until her spine curves into the broad expanse of his chest. She can almost swear that the tip of his nose brushes the back of her neck, that he pauses for a moment to breathe her in, but she maybe imagines that part. Her fingers feel cool against the back of his hand, light and airy over the ridges of his knuckles, slender as they fill the spaces between his fingers. She feels too much of him, his warmth, his throbbing heart, the steady certainty of his hands. There’s nothing good about this. Beckett would never let this happen. She thinks she shouldn’t either. 

The camera clicks furiously. “Yes, that looks good. Give me a smile, beautiful. Oh yes, perfect! Wrap your arms around her,” Munawar directs. 

Nathan’s hands slip from beneath hers, forearms cinching snugly around her waist, inadvertently pressing her hard into the seat of his lap. The harsh breath he sucks in tells her she’s too close, and she’s wickedly amused, tantalized by the notion that his body is betraying his immaculate control over everything. Beckett _would_ enjoy teasing Castle. Before she can wrap her mind around the possibilities, his hands quickly find her waist, lifting her slightly to ease the pressure, and he shifts her weight onto his muscular thigh.

“I like that, Nathan. Let her sit on one of your legs.” 

He moves her like she weighs nothing at all, pulling her legs up as he parts his thighs and then swings her legs down between his. She throws her arm around his neck for balance, and she can hear Munawar calling out a steady stream of encouragements. She starts finding it ridiculously hilarious, and when she can’t hold her laughter back, Nathan cracks too, his laughter warm and quiet against her cheek. She laughs and listens to the sound of his laugh until she’s dizzy, the warmth pooling inside her making her limbs weaken around his. 

It pleases their photographer enormously. “Yes, that looks great. Look at each other!” 

Stana dutifully twists to meet his laughing, unguarded blue eyes. It’s all suddenly, unexpectedly fun – like the past two weeks have been nothing but a figment of her imagination. And she wants to say something, wants to ask how and why they are becoming strangers again. _All I’ve ever wanted is to be your friend._ She ponders the truth in that, and then, not quite ready to deal with the repercussions, she carefully tucks it away in a special corner of her mind, where most things Nathan live. 

“And we’re done!” 

Munawar’s announcement jolts her back to the present, and Nathan’s arms drop on cue. Coming to her feet, she turns to him with a soft smile, all her words stuck in a place between her lungs and her lips. 

Nathan clears his throat, façade firmly in place, and runs the fingers of his left hand through his hair. “I have to make a few phone calls,” he says, pulling his phone out of his pocket. He divides an apologetic look between her and Munawar. “I’ll be back for my individual portraits,” he promises, and then like an afterthought, noncommittally, “I’ll see you.” 

He’s gone so quickly it makes her head spin, and all the little things lie unsaid.   

*** 

“I hear you’ve been lobbying for your own trailer.” 

Blue eyes, wide and bright, lift from the _Castle_ season two finale’s script to find her leaning against their kitchen counter. He wasn’t expecting her. She can tell as much from the surprised, not-particularly-pleased smile he flashes at her, the reluctant warmth that creeps into his gaze almost without his permission. She can also tell because lately he wouldn’t willingly put himself in the same room as her, not if he could help it. All in all, this persistent evasion is a heroic feat given how intertwined their lives are both on and off set, especially since Castle can’t seem to get enough of Beckett. Of course, everything gets upended in this season finale that closes with him – Castle not Nathan – walking away arm-in-arm with his ex-wife. It’s strangely appropriate as they break for the summer. She’s off to Europe, and Nathan has been off with Kate Luyben for the better part of the past month. And she’s happy for him. She _really_ is, but it’s hard to pretend that him going behind her back to ask for his own trailer – away from her – doesn’t smart in all the ways it should and shouldn’t. 

“I feel like we’re at that point with the show’s success where we both deserve an upgrade,” he says easily, and it sounds remarkably impersonal the way his voice falls flat and drives into her with the force of a pickup truck. His hand falls, palm-down on the paper, smoothing over it. 

She conjures a smile, something false and thin that feels brittle on her lips. This shouldn’t matter as much as it does, but she doesn’t dare catch the tail of that thought. “Yeah, I can’t believe we’re getting a third season,” she muses. 

“Yeah,” he repeats, finally dropping his tight-lipped smile as if holding it has proven too exhausting. His fingertips find the edge of the script and trace it absently, maybe in search of a paper-cut. “It feels good not to be waiting for the other shoe to drop.” 

She hums in agreement and lets silence eat up the oxygen between them for several seconds – ten or fifteen. She stops counting at seven, fiddles instead with the top button on her shirt and tries valiantly to tamp down the mystifying emotions surging through her. “So how’s the lobbying going?” she hears her own words shatter the haze and hates that some of the misplaced hurt welling deep inside creeps into her voice. She wonders when and _how_ things started becoming so complicated. 

Something that smells like guilt shimmers in his averted eyes. “I have Andrew’s word that we’ll have separate trailers in the fall,” he tells her. 

Another pause of two laden heartbeats, and then, “Good.” 

“Better air-conditioners too,” he continues as if this newfound stillness is too thick to sit in their midst. “And I got us a raise. Also negotiated to have wine gums permanently stocked on every set.”   

She laughs and doesn’t mean it. “You’ve been busy,” she shoots back, and he lays the script gently on his lap because he knows it’s about this – them – and how he’s made it so that they’re not _them_ or much of _anything_ anymore. 

At the very least, he doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. It’s but a small consolation. “Yeah, lining up projects for the summer, spending time with Kate – you know how it is.” 

“I guess I do.” _Nice. Bitter Stana. Charming._

His eyes follow her from the counter to the pale yellow armchair opposite the couch he’s perched on. The gentle racket of her motion eases the tension. She likes to think that the utter familiarity of her movements reminds him that they’ve been here before. He leans into the couch, visibly relaxes his muscles and considers her for a moment. “What did you decide to do about that film, the one with Mark Polish? Are you doing it?” 

_A day of deflection – how refreshing_. She nods. “Yeah, I think it’ll be a fun project.” 

A whisper of a frown colors his expression, and then it’s gone, forgotten. “Hmm,” he murmurs. 

She arches her eyebrows. “What does that mean?” 

“Nothing,” he says, and the denial is too quick, too telling. 

“Nathan.” 

“What?” He looks slightly miffed. 

She swallows past the lump of pride in her throat and lays her queen on the table. “I _care_ what you think.” 

This silence suffocates her because she can _feel_ him letting the words sink in, rationalizing them so they can’t possibly breach the insurmountable invisible wall he’s built between them. God forbid anything should affect him. “Well,” he says finally, appropriately detached. “I don’t think it’s a good idea, but it’s not my place or my call.” 

“Why don’t you think it’s a good idea?” she prods.

“I think you can do a lot better. It feels opportunistic. You’re just starting to ride the wave of your success with _Castle_. It’s great for them to capitalize on that recognition, but for you it sets a precedent. It doesn’t build anything. This sounds like nothing but a school project,” he sums it all up with infallible reasoning and words that cut like the jagged edges on a broken glass.

“Why didn’t you tell me that when I first told you?”

“Like I said, Stana, it’s not my place. I’m just your costar. This is none of my business. It’s your life and your career.”

She blinks back the burn that blurs her vision. “You’re my friend,” she corrects softly.

He looks at her then, long and hard, and she’s almost forgotten how intensely frigid that blue gaze can become. And he almost says it. _We’re not friends_. The words hover in his eyes, heavy and unspoken. Then he shrugs, dismisses her and everything because some things can’t be unsaid. He comes to his feet, and he’s so tall, so commanding in his presence, that it immediately tips everything in his favor. “If you want to do it, you should do it. Nobody can make that decision for you,” he says. “Especially not me.” He pointedly avoids her gaze as he straightens his copy of the script, obsessively aligning corners.

“Are you going to tell me what’s wrong?”

Her words still him for a second, interrupt his untimely pursuit of perfection. He cuts his eyes back to hers and gives her an incredulous look that he wears like a mask. It shuts her out completely. “Nothing is wrong,” he insists.

“Okay,” she says softly.

“Okay,” he echoes. “I’m going to have a chat with Rob about this last scene. I’ll see you on set.”

 _Of course you are._ She smiles halfheartedly. “See you on set.”

The sight of him walking away strikes her as too familiar this time around.


	8. part eight

**_part eight  
_ ** _“For the first time, she did want more.  
She did not know what she wanted, knew that it was dangerous  
and that she should rest content with what she had,  
but she knew an emptiness deep inside her, which began to ache.”  
_ **―** _Iain Pears,_ The Dream of Scipio

The lens of a Cannon camera chases her from Paris to Nice through the end of June. She pretends to be in love until her lips feel bruised from tasteless kisses and her cheeks ache with echoes of practiced laughter, and she misses actually _being_ in love. It hits her like a sucker punch in the gut – that the silent loneliness slowly crawling into her is the resonance of an _absence_. She spends weeks longing for something she cannot name, her treacherous hand tucked safely in Kris’ elbow as they traipse from Rome to Florence to Milan. Amidst bouts of desperate, empty aching, she obsesses over the moment her duplicity began, that instant she fell out of love with her partner, friend and lover. She fixates on the little things, like the way his hair falls across his forehead, the sound of his laughter and how he’s gradually been losing touch with his inner child. Everything strikes her as a flimsy excuse, and she wallows in guilt late into the nights after his hands stop warming her body and he’s swallowed in dreams. Sleep eludes her, but she’s made a living out of putting on a show, so she keeps on pretending that time is at a standstill on a beach in Sydney one late afternoon, her smiles as sunny as that day, her kisses as new. When he doesn’t question her, she thinks it’s because her exploit is so convincing that he can’t see through it or he’s not ready to face the consequences of that altercation. She doesn’t think she’s ready either.

July and Los Angeles greet their return with sweltering heat and a flood of memories that steals her breath.

_“You look like a melting snowman.”_

_A sly grin and twinkling blue eyes. “But so much sexier.”_

She lingers in that corner of her mind where she’s tucked him away, and he comes alive with his words and his laughter. She loses herself there for hours or days, breaking down recollections into unrecognizable snippets – a teasing smile, a glimmer in his eyes, a fingertip on the inside of her palm, a wayward promise. When their history is in pieces of fiction and reality, she rearranges everything until it makes sense. Time starts to blur, and she spends most of it alone because her pretense grows as weary as her excuses.

That inevitable Monday comes too soon and much too late, an ambivalence that rattles her to the core. The early morning is balmy and tinged by a hint of rosy dawn that reminds her of dusk and the taste of his beer on her lips, cool and impersonal. She fills her chest with the heavy tang of the rolling tide, lets the quiet lull of morning settle her as her fingertips fall against the porch steps, dancing to the pitter-patter of a private melody. Her sneakered feet feel solid on the rung below, and the world is so painfully, tangibly real. She knows a strange sense of peace she hasn’t felt in months.

_“I don’t understand how you can wake up so early,” he says again, shaking his head in disbelief. He folds the Los Angeles Times in half twice and tosses it on the coffee table, giving her the entirety of his searing attention. “What do you do at such an ungodly hour?”_

_His curious indignation tickles her, and her answering smile teeters too close to indulgence. “I sit on my front porch,” she tells him._

_“What’s on your front porch?” he prods, suspicious now, one eyebrow quizzically raised, and she can tell he cherishes this glimpse into her life more than she should allow him to._

_“Silence.”_

_He contemplates her in stunned silence for long moments as if he craves that same tranquility she finds in solitude or maybe as if he wishes he could be privy to the quiet intimacy of her porch. She blinks, and when she opens her eyes, humor has already melted the calamity on his face and crinkled his dancing eyes into a boyish smile. “Is that a polite way of asking me to shut up?” he faux gasps._

“You’re up earlier than usual.”

She whips around to find Kris looming in the open doorway, sleep heavy across his shadowed face. He catches the tail end of her private smile and his own lips curl in response. Even though he’s barely five feet away, it feels like a thousand miles. “Yeah, first day of work,” she says by way of explanation. “Feels like the first day of school,” she confesses.

The line of his lips turns mocking. “I don’t remember any kid being excited to go back to school.”

Is she excited? She’s nervous and weary – and yes maybe a little excited because she hasn’t seen everyone in months. She hasn’t spoken to _him_ in months, and everything is so different. _She_ is different. Definitely, nervous. “Work is way cooler than school.” She shoots him her brightest smile and pushes herself off the porch steps. Closing the distance between them, she leans towards him to press a kiss against his unshaven cheek. The arm he slips around her is warm and familiar. He hugs her to his chest, his lips warm against her forehead.

“I wish I could say the same,” he sighs and lets her go, watching as she reaches around him for her helmet. “Are you biking?”

“Yes, it’s early, and the weather is as good as it gets for July.”

He shakes his head. “The sun is barely up, darling. It’s going to get baking hot in a couple of hours.”

She shrugs and snaps the helmet on, tugging at the black strap to tighten the fit. “I’ll catch a ride on my way back,” she reasons.

His nod is a concession. “I can come pick you up when you’re done,” he offers.

The flicker of hesitation she feels is hidden behind a grateful smile. “Thanks, hon. I’ll let you know,” she promises.

She’s halfway down the driveway when she hears his voice call out, “have fun!”

The ride to work is a soothing routine. At odds with the barely awake world outside, the _Castle_ studio is humming with activity, and the familiarity immediately puts her at ease. She spends forty minutes being welcomed back by the crew, sharing the highlights of her summer and listening to stories about fleeting flings, beach vacations, and growing children. When she’s led to her brand new trailer, she thanks Liz, her assistant, and Tony for putting everything together. She tells them it’s beautiful, and then she’s alone. It _is_ beautiful and spacious – tastefully furnished. It’s also _empty_ – lonely – and it feels too much like an _ending_. She swallows past the sudden onslaught of sadness and distracts herself by looking over the schedule Liz handed her this morning. A bright pink post-it bears the bold strokes of Rob’s unmistakable scrawl, and it sends her heart into a frenzy of asymmetry.

_Set delays. Scheduling change. C/B interrogation scene filming first @ 9AM._

***

The season three premiere finds Castle and Beckett on the opposite ends of an interrogation table. It’s the first scene of what’s sure to be a long, grueling day.

They don’t rehearse because he’s _late_.

It bothers her – the unspoken implication that his night wasn’t nearly as sleepless as hers, that he did not rise with the dawn in breathless anticipation of seeing her after months of silence. She realizes how unfair and unreasonable it is to expect anything at all, but the lack of reciprocation hurts too much to let go.

“ _Stana_ , are you listening to me?”

She blinks twice at Rob and nods dutifully. “Yes, we start rolling in…”

“Twenty seconds. Nathan is in the interrogation room.”

She drifts into Kate Beckett mode, and it’s almost a relief to let in all of her – and Beckett’s – disappointment, to allow herself to feel jilted over the summer, to acknowledge the bite of his rebuff. The darkness swirls inside her at a slow simmer.

“Everyone’s in position. We start rolling in three, two, one, and action!”

Drawing in a deep breath, she lowers the doorknob and walks into the interrogation room, her rigid movements interrupting his pensive survey of the once-familiar surroundings. Beckett’s heart stills in her chest, punctuated by the gentle click of the makeshift door as it shuts. Their gazes meet in a laden exchange of a decade of words. The surprising warmth in his eyes finds all the cracks in her veneer, and she almost forgets all about the darkness. Nathan quirks the corner of his clever mouth until it curves into a gentle smile. It does something funny to her organs. Everything squeezes in like her body wishes to close in on itself and fence out the world.

The way he intently watches the subtle changes in her expressions puts her on guard. And when he takes her in from head to foot, that blazing blue like an untarnished flame, trailing heat everywhere it touches from her hair to her jaw to her hands and waist to the tips of her shoes, she’s afraid of her own vulnerability, her susceptibility to losing her edge. “Something is different,” he says, and _of course it is_. Everything is different. “Did you remodel?” he asks.

Swallowing tightly, she straightens up and bravely holds his gaze as her strides purposefully eat up the room. This is Beckett’s fortress. She won’t be cowed on her turf. With resolve, she gracefully lowers herself into the chair across from him, slams down her folder and it’s a perfect mirror of her first audition, the day they met. Castle and Beckett. Stana and Nathan. Linking her fingers, she angles her body across the table because Beckett dominates the interrogation room even when her heart aches like the devil is chewing on it. “You’ve been informed of your rights Mister Castle?” she begins steadily.

He flicks a glance at the table and lifts his wide eyes back to hers, his countenance friendly. “Really?” he asks incredulously. “You’re not even gonna ask me how my summer was?”

A thousand unspoken words clamor in her head, and they torture her because she _wants_ to know everything about him and his summer. Beckett would rather run naked through the precinct than tell him that. The tension tugs her in every direction, but she wears Kate Beckett, and Beckett wears her best poker face. “You are aware that you are under arrest for murder,” she reminds him with a wealth of contrived calmness.

Something akin to humor starts to dance behind the disarming twist of his lips, and she looks away to guard her tenacity. “I thought you were whipping out the cuffs just for fun,” he teases gently. A quiet pause brings her gaze back to his, and he stares at her like maybe he’s been thinking of nothing else everyday since April. “You look good,” he says finally. It’s short and honest, a sentiment that’s two-parts-Castle and one-part-Nathan. The words leave a small smile in their wake, something unembellished, and so utterly beautiful.

She doesn’t realize how much she misses it until it’s there, crinkling the sides of his eyes, lighting up his face. God, she needs to deal with this. She feels the echo of his smile on her lips, and she calls it an improvisation. “You look good, too,” Beckett says, and she means it a lot more sincerely than the context allows.

“Yeah?”

“For murder!”

A genuine flash of confusion contorts his handsome face. “Why are you so mad at me?”

 _Because we haven’t spoken in months. Because you can’t be my friend. Because you’ve made my life so very complicated._ The parallels unnerve her. “Maybe because you were found standing over a dead body with a gun in your hand,” she says instead, in the manner of someone describing the weather.

“Yeah, but I told you she was dead when I got there,” he shoots back, mimicking her breezy tone.

“Why didn’t you call?” A loaded question for Beckett, for her, for Castle, for Nathan. She pushes her elbows out, leans across the table because Beckett is on the offensive.

He lets the weight of it settle between them, his mouth slightly open, poised for an alibi. “I was going to call you,” he insists. “But then you showed up before I could.”

Nodding conversationally, she presses her lips together. “Really? Well then why did we find you in our victim’s apartment.”

“Well because she called me.”

That sends Beckett back into her seat, eyes wide, words razor-edged. “Oh, so you and Miss Santori were in a relationship,” she presumes, over-enunciating the words as she takes a sudden undue interest in the folder before her.

“I wouldn’t say it was a relationship. I bought a couple of sculptures from her…”

“Were you sleeping with her?” she interrupts, a little too sharp, a little too hurt, her dark gaze pinning him to his seat.

He pauses for a beat, a whisper of a frown marring his brow as he assesses the damage. “How is that relevant?” And now those sparkling cobalt eyes are looking at her like he’s privy to her innermost thoughts, to how much Beckett actually cares.

“Motive,” she answers automatically.

“Ah,” he hums, and there’s a knowing smile hidden behind his voice, behind his eyelashes, across his cheeks. It taunts her to no end. “No, I wasn’t sleeping with her,” he tells her, his words evenly spaced, and he leans across the table too as if the battleground has been evened.

Beckett wrestles for the upper hand. “Are you sure? Beautiful woman…”

“I’m in a relationship,” he cuts in, and there’s a solemn gravity to the words that feels like a kick in the shins. The entire mood turns somber, and except for Beckett aren’t _they all_? In a relationship? Stana and Castle and Nathan and three people that have little to do with this breach of truth and lies. What does that even mean anymore?

“With whom?” Beckett posits nonchalantly, cocking her head to the side.

“Is that a new lipstick?” he volleys without missing a beat, and the sudden devotion of his attention to her lips is strangely unsettling.

“Castle,” Beckett’s voice is full of warning, indignant because she might be the only honest one in this mess.

“You know with whom.” And he’s definitely not smiling anymore because this? This is _painful_ in too many universes for it to warrant a smile.

“How should I know? I haven’t seen you in months. You could have been in dozens of relationships with women since then,” she retorts, her consonants snapping like twigs.

He’s almost amused again. “You sound jealous.” He sounds pleased.

She scoffs. “Jealous of you dating your second ex-wife and publisher. Tell me, does she make you do everything on a deadline?” _Oh, Beckett, so sassy_.

“So how about you? You still with that cop boyfriend? What was his name again? _Demming_?”

She averts his gaze, retreats onto safer ground, physically distancing herself because the stab of misguided rejection is something that keeps Kate Beckett awake at night.

“You broke up?” he queries, and there’s a sense of urgency that’s hard to ignore. Still, Beckett ignores it and him, jumping headfirst into the case. Solving murders, slaying other peoples’ demons – that has always been so much easier than finding the words to make things right. The back-and-forth tempo of their scripted conversation flows flawlessly. They’re perfectly in sync. She’s snarky; he’s clever. It almost feels _normal_ , which nothing about this is.

“So tell me why should I believe you considering that you pretty much make up stories for a living?” Beckett implores, and Stana finds herself lost to the layers in that question. _She_ plays pretend for a living. What does that say for trust?

“Because you know me,” Castle mutters.

If only it could be that easy. She diverts his hurt stare and picks up her folder, pressing it between them like a shield, and they delve into the case again. 

“Cut!” Rob calls out. “That was great, phenomenal from the first take. You killed it. Let’s break for five,” he tells them. The set is suddenly milling with members of the crew, and the fragile illusion of their aloneness disappears. In the commotion, she finds his gaze just as they both abandon their chairs.

“Hey,” he says and smiles sheepishly. “Wow, I can’t believe we haven’t seen each other since the finale,” he muses as he steps around the table and impulsively pulls her into a quick, friendly hug. She barely has time to process it, how all of a sudden his scent surrounds her and his arms feel solid around her, comfortable in their unfamiliarity. Her long, lithe body is dwarfed against him in a way that’s not at all unpleasant.

“I know. It’s good to see you,” she tells him warmly, slipping out of the cocoon of his arms. She’s quick to brandish one of her practiced, bright smiles, but it feels more genuine than it has in weeks.

“It’s good to see you too,” he agrees. She tries not to read anything into his unconscious sigh, and she doesn’t realize that she’s left a gaping silence in their midst until he speaks again. “How was the break? I didn’t see you around here.”

It’s an unnecessary excuse because they rarely run into each other in bustling Los Angeles, but he _knows_ she wasn’t around. Did he ask about her? Why should he even care? “I was traveling for the most part. I got back last week,” she responds, but she skips the details that nag at her, like how he’s managed to insinuate himself into every little corner of her city, like how much she thought about him as she roamed the cities of the Old World, like how many times she replayed the last moments of their heated exchange that very last day in April.

“Europe?” he prods, and he’s giving her one of these looks Castle gives Beckett. Attentive. Admiring.

“Yeah,” she breathes, hates that she sounds a little winded.

“Sounds fun,” he jumps in quickly, his smile turning wistful, and God she wishes he would stop looking at her like that.

“What did you get up to?”

“I was around,” he replies, lifting one shoulder in an evasive shrug.

“How’s Kate?” she pries and gives herself a harsh mental dress down for violating her own rules. From day one, she navigated the maze of their interactions carefully, drawing lines and erecting boundaries as if she always knew how dangerous he could become to her peace of mind.

He hides his surprise behind another smile. This one is happy, and it looks good on him. It’s unfair, she thinks, for someone to be able to wear Richard Castle’s hideous purple shirts so well. “Good,” he beams. “She’s good.”

“Good,” she murmurs and finds a spot on the ground between them to occupy her.

“And Kris? How is he?” he asks, drawing her gaze back up and lifting a single mocking eyebrow that all but says: _since we do this now._

She considers a barrage of denials, but everything sounds so tired in her head. The truth feels easier this time. “He’s – um – alright. He…”

“Stana, we need you on set at the precinct,” Rob interrupts, dividing a curious glance between the two of them.

 _Saved by the bell._ “Okay, coming.” She smiles at Nathan apologetically, and his blue gaze is narrowed on her like he can’t quite place her or their conversation anywhere on the map that defines them. “I’ll see you later,” she says and follows Rob to the next set.

She feels his gaze burn through her until she’s well out of sight.


	9. part nine

**_part nine  
_ ** _“And that's when I know it's over. As soon as you start thinking about the beginning, it's the end.”  
_ ****_― Junot Díaz,_ This Is How You Lose Her

There’s something provocative about the way his hum rumbles deep in his chest.

Stana wonders if it’s the small, mysterious smile teasing at the corners of his lips or his faded, tattered jeans and the way his Green Lantern t-shirt clings to the swell of his biceps. The early afternoon sunlight rests in odd shapes of gilded warmth across the sharp angle of his shaven jaw. He lies sprawled on her La-Z-Boy recliner, elbows perched on the armrests, socked feet propped up and crossed at the ankles, looking like something out of the pages of a magazine, comfortably loose, pensively perusing the latest script. His thick hair is in stark contrast to the dark leather, and she’s never noticed how fair he is. She thinks he must have been a blond child, and the thought of him in muddy overalls, tousled golden hair and a toothless mischievous smile preoccupies her. When he looks up at her expectantly, she catches fascinating flecks of electric blue in his bright eyes and decides it’s a convoluted reflection of his vivid green shirt.

He lifts one questioning eyebrow, and she self-consciously drops her gaze to the boldly highlighted words on her script. _Oh, right_ , her line, something about Alexis and young love. “What do you think will happen if you don’t get on with his parents?” she reads – literally _reads_ – and the tone is all wrong because there’s too much of _her_ in Beckett’s words.

If he picks up on her distraction, Nathan doesn’t say anything. Still perfectly on par with Castle’s childish eagerness, he shrugs the broad row of his shoulders against the supple leather. “She’ll lose interest in him?” he asks hopefully.

She shakes her head both to clear it and because _Beckett_ feels the need to. “Oh, no. The exact opposite,” she says, more comfortable in her alter ego’s skin. “I mean it’ll make their romance feel forbidden and they’ll be off doing God knows what. Trust me, I know.”

There’s a beat of silence, and out of the corners of her eyes, she can see him watching her intently. It unnerves her, and Beckett’s hard-earned control starts to slip out of her desperate grip. _Everything_ about them is somehow new again. Their rediscovered friendship is barely into its fourth week, and it’s so much more complicated than she remembers it to be. Her body hums with newfound awareness, and the air in her trailer crackles between them. “You do?” he asks at last, the words deliberately, sorely misplaced.

She rolls in her lips, presses them together and flicks her amused gaze from the marked page to his narrowed blue eyes. “That’s not your line,” she points out wryly. _You smell like lavender._

Much less flustered than the last time he blatantly blundered a line, he glances down at the script and lets out an indignant huff of protest. “It should be,” he contends. “ _Castle_ would want to know why Beckett knows all about forbidden romances,” he reasons, pinning her with a look that suggests she actually has an answer to his unspoken question.

She kicks out her legs along the loveseat’s cream fabric, script forgotten. “Wanna take that up with Shalisha?” she suggests teasingly.

For a moment, he looks like he’s considering taking it up with the writer, but then he turns the full blast of his burning gaze on her and shifts gears completely, catching her off-guard. “Any forbidden romances in _your_ history?” And this has nothing to do with what _Castle_ wants to know and everything to do with Nathan and _her_ , his tireless efforts to scale her walls and her weakening restraint.

She ignores the way her heart trips down the ladder of her ribs into her stomach. “Am I Beckett now?” she deflects.

His lopsided grin is self-deprecating. “I don’t know. Are you?” he wonders.

Tugging her bottom lip between her teeth, she chews on it thoughtfully and tries not to notice how his gaze drops to her mouth and lingers. “Well, it depends. Are you Castle?” she volleys back.

A somber frown furrows his brow, his good humor momentarily shelved, and he lays his script over his lap in favor of running his well-groomed fingers through the sides of his hair, leaving trails that make him look endearingly disheveled. She itches to smooth the errant locks back into place as if by restoring everything to its pristine perfection, she can go on pretending. “I’m not sure,” he confesses and drops his elbows back onto the armrests. “Andrew is especially good at messing with my mind.” His apparent inability to step outside of Richard Castle disturbs him, and she understands it all too well. Sometimes she can’t bear to think what that means for either of them.

“You’re not Castle,” she asserts, and the suddenness of her interjection has him lifting his chin. “Castle believes most of his half-jokes about himself, but you don’t. You’re much more self-critical and not nearly as in love with yourself.”

A flash of appreciation glimmers in his gaze, but he hides it behind a tickled grin and steepled fingers. “Are you saying I don’t like myself?” he scoffs.

“Not always,” she says honestly.

For the aching length of a minute, he contemplates her, and there’s a shift in the set of his shoulders that’s frighteningly familiar. She thinks his silence means acquiescence, and when she dares to meet his brilliant stare, she finds him caught somewhere between guarded and vulnerable. It takes her back to April and the night at the Paley Center, his heart on the line and hers in a Santa Monica restaurant. Timing hasn’t been their strong suit. “You’re very good at distracting me,” he mutters finally, faintly accusatory. “I still want to hear about your forbidden romances, Stana.”

She fixates on the sound of her name as the lilt of the last syllable dies on his lips and pulls her firmly into her reality where Beckett is fiction and Castle is Andrew Marlowe’s self-projection. Her mother always tells her she loses herself in stories and places until the proverbial line blurs beyond recognition. She leaves pieces of herself in them and carries their pieces instead. “I’ve always erred on the side of caution when it comes to romances,” she admits.

She adores the surprised, quiet smile that starts at the corners of his lips, blossoms into a full, dashing grin and circles back to his twinkling eyes. He’s inordinately thrilled, and she acknowledges a twinge of regret at having left him in a place where he expects very little of her. “I don’t believe that,” he taunts. “I see a wild child behind this angelic face.”

She laughs, half-embarrassed, half-flattered and hopelessly taken. “It’s true,” she insists. “There’s nothing interesting about my dating history,” she states, but he’s staring at her like _everything_ about her non-stories is absolutely riveting.

“I promise not to out you to the tabloids,” he teases with mock solemnity, dispatching his right index finger to draw an invisible cross over his chest. “Cross my heart and hope to die.”

Smothering another bout of giddy laughter, she assesses him like she’s judging his trustworthiness. “There was this one math teacher in sixth grade,” she begins gravely, her smile held at bay.

The flagrant curiosity scribbled across his face captivates her. “Ah, what was little Stana like?”

“Completely besotted,” she divulges. “With Mister Tribe, who was a tall math wizard with blond hair and the bluest eyes I’d ever seen. Of course, he barely knew I existed because I was the definition of an average student. It broke my preteen heart.”

“You? _Average_?” he echoes disbelievingly.

“Middle of the middle of the pack,” she confirms and tucks a stray piece of auburn hair behind her ear.

“And then you went on to date socially-approved boys,” he guesses and smiles gently like he’s trying to reconcile this version of her with a gawky preteen girl and a schoolgirl crush. When he looks at her again, she thinks his eyes are the bluest eyes she’s ever seen. “How did you and Kris meet?” he asks, and the words are just _there_ – spoken.

She swallows the urge to veer into self-preservation mode and protect her slipping secrets. A tiny reminiscent smile curls her lips without her permission, and she looks past him, at the parted shutters where pieces of sun and sky ground her. It’s easier to relive that day when she can’t see Nathan, a living, breathing reminder that she’s no longer that girl. “I was in Sydney for an exchange program in 2001,” she recalls. “It was summer, and Sydney has some of the most _breathtaking_ beaches. I was thousands of miles away from Illinois, and I started ditching classes at least twice a week to soak up the sun. One morning in January, Kris tagged along with a friend to one of our beach treks, and it was this instant attraction,” she recounts wistfully. “It took him a good couple of hours before he could have a full-fledged conversation with me. He claims it’s because he couldn’t stop staring at me long enough to say something intelligent.” Her smile turns tender at the memory of Kris embellishing this story with long descriptions of how the sun _worshipped_ her.

“It’s not hard to imagine why,” Nathan says softly, and it’s almost too much, too telling. Her gaze swings to his, and their eyes meet for seconds or minutes. She loses time to the reverberation of longing that knocks the wind out of her lungs. “And then what happened?” he prods, breaking the charged silence.  

She diverts his rapt gaze. _Coward_. “I decided to stay for the summer, and we spent the next few months together.” _Six months_. Sometimes, she would smell the perfume she wore that summer, and it would take her back to her dingy little apartment and the impossibly romantic allure of falling headfirst in love with his beaming smiles and reckless abandon. A complete stranger then, more familiar to her now than her brothers. “And then I came back home to finish school.”

The footrest clicks into place as he places his feet on the ground. Elbows planted on his knees, he leans forward to stare at her, and a rakish lock of hair skates down his forehead. “ _What_?” he sputters.

“What?” she teases with an air of contrived nonchalance. She slants a coy, half-smile in his direction.

“You can’t leave me on a cliffhanger,” he complains. “I know you end up together, and neither of you is in Australia. What happened?” he pries.

“We were in love, but we were both so busy, we fell out of touch within a year. Life happened for a while.” She pauses to clear the lump in her throat and busies her hands with tracing the pointy corners of her script. The pain takes her entirely by surprise. “I had been living in LA for two years when we ran into each other at a friend’s house party,” she tells him, and she remembers feeling favored by the universe that night. It was a providential coincidence, a serendipitous alignment of all her stars. “The rest is history.”

“Wow,” Nathan breathes and lowers his gaze to his linked hands. She wonders if the rattled look on her face unsettles him. “Where was he that entire time and what brought him to LA?” he asks, struggling to make sense of that life-altering moment.

“That’s his story to tell.”

He nods in understanding and then gives his head a rapid, hard shake like he can’t quite assimilate this journey into her past. “That’s a pretty epic story,” he tells her, and the grudging appreciation that colors his tone stills her.

 _Oh mama, I’m losing myself in the story again_. “I know it seems crazy in retrospect,” she ruminates. If only this particular fairytale isn’t crumbling around her, trapping her in the barricades of its ruins. “Sydney feels like a different lifetime.”

“Time has a funny way of doing that. You look back, and it’s almost like you’re seeing someone else’s life.”

She draws in a quick breath, startled by how accurately he verbalized her innermost thoughts. “It’s almost like I was a different person then,” she agrees. Whatever he was going to say next is interrupted by a polite knock on her door and a steady stream of indistinct chatter on the other side. Nathan tilts his head in question, and she shrugs. “Come in,” she calls out.

Liz cracks the door open and sticks her head in with an apologetic smile as someone persistently nudges the door from behind her.

“Your…”

“Zdravo mišiću!” His exuberant voice and endearment register before the door falls entirely open. He edges past a harassed Liz, his strides long and his smile wide and warm –beautifully familiar.

“… brother is here,” Liz finishes, her smile turning helpless as she pulls the door closed.

“Marko!” Tossing her script aside, Stana jumps to her feet and rushes to his side, only to be engulfed in a giant bear hug and playfully lifted off the ground. “Put me down, kid,” she admonishes him, her breath winded with laughter.  

He sets her back down on her feet and lets her go, stepping away to take her in with eyes that glint with their mother’s concern. “You’ve lost weight. You’re light as a feather. I’m telling on you,” he says disapprovingly, sounding _exactly_ like their mother.

“Oh, shut up. I haven’t. You’ve been spending way too much time with mama,” she accuses, gently jabbing her index finger into his chest, and his handsome face melts into a guilty smile. “What are you doing here?”

“Business trip came out of nowhere. I thought I’d drop by and see my favorite sister,” he says, and he’s momentarily distracted as he leans to the side and looks behind her. She hears Nathan shuffle out of the La-Z-Boy and immediately twists sideways.

“Oh God, I’m so sorry; I still haven’t introduced the two of you. I’m out of it today. So rude,” she rambles under her breath, her heart flipping in her chest at Nathan’s unabashed, entertained grin. “Nathan, this is my little brother, Marko.”

“I gathered,” he interrupts jovially and steps closer, holding out his hand. The two men shake hands. “It’s nice to meet you, Marko. I’m Nathan.”

Dark eyes glinting impishly, Marko divides a glance between them. “Do the two of you work together?” he deadpans, a smile twitching at the corners of his eyes. She whips around to gape at him and smacks him lightly across the arm. Nathan chuckles. “I’m kidding, mišiću,” he mollifies her, snaking a ropy arm around her shoulders and giving her a tight squeeze.

“You better be,” she grumbles.

“Nathan, it’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m rooting for you on _Castle_.”

That earns him an elbow to his side. “ _Marko_.”

Nathan watches the exchange with a barely concealed twinkle in his sapphire eyes. “Thank you. That means a lot coming from you,” he jokes. “And _Mischa_?” he asks, turning his attention to her, eyes now dancing with mischief. It’s completely disarming, and she catches herself smiling sheepishly in spite of herself. “Is that your middle name?”

Marko shakes his head, all too willing a pawn in the other man’s game. “No, it’s Serbian for little mouse,” he explains. “Our father has always called Stanica that.”

“Oh, hey, is it embarrass Stana day? I missed the memo,” she says sarcastically, reconciled to her fate of endless mockery.

The force of Nathan’s smile narrows his eyes to two slits of cobalt. “ _Stan-eet-sa?_ ” he mouths silently.

She groans and covers her face with both hands. “I’m never going to hear the end of this.” 

“Nope, not anytime soon,” he confirms with a cheeky wink. Marko has the audacity to laugh at her. “I’ll let you two catch up. Marko, it really is wonderful to meet you,” he says graciously. “I’ll see you on set later,” he tells her on his way out.

“Later,” she echoes as the door clicks shut.

“Nice guy,” Marko remarks dismissively as he makes his way over to what she’s come to think of as Nathan’s chair. 

 _Yes, nice_ , she reflects. A hundred other adjectives come to mind, but she pushes them all away and sighs. “Yeah,” she murmurs and when he finds her still rooted to the spot in the middle of her trailer, he gives her an odd look.

“Anything you wanna talk about?” he asks slowly.

 _Maybe, but not today._ Her face splits on a smile, a sunny reassuring flash of light that erases the worry on his face, and she really is becoming especially adept at pretense. “Nope. I’m just happy to see you, Marko Polo.”

“Not again!”

***

He owns her the moment her four-inch heels strike the red carpet.

She _feels_ the sweep of his gaze over her like a long, lingering caress that warms the bite of the late November chill. It touches her everywhere, and her skin burns hot and cold, prickling against the breeze. She spots him moments later in fleeting glimpses interrupted by Taylor Swift, Eric Stonestreet and a humming crowd of reporters and photographers. Despite the bustle, she can’t look away. His eyes enchant her with their piercing, single-minded intent, and they are so impossibly blue – like a trapped ocean raging, tortured with restraint.

He _owns_ her.

She has no other word for the way he steals her air and sits cross-legged in her every thought even as the bright flashes of a hundred cameras blind her. With her most convincing Hollywood smile firmly in place, she dwells in the corner of her mind where he still longs for her because even then she _knew_. The gnawing guilt settles in the pit of her belly, achingly familiar, a constant companion since that fateful revelation of loneliness in Saint Tropez.

 _“You can sing,” he says matter-of-factly as he strolls into her trailer half an hour after they finish shooting the last scene of the tenth episode,_ Last Call _._

_She toys with the ends of her hair, a self-conscious habit she can’t seem to shake. “I don’t have a terrible voice,” she corrects, watching him go straight for the La-Z-Boy. He sinks into the leather chair, all long limbs and disheveled hair. It’s her favorite part of every day._

_“You can sing!” he repeats, more animated this time around. “Your voice is more than_ not terrible _,” he mimics, his eyes slicing to hers reprovingly. “Tell me,” he says and folds his thick arms over his chest. “Is there anything you can’t do?”_  

Ten episodes into season three, she and Nathan have slowly – cautiously – toed their way back into a tentative, charged friendship. The afternoons often find them rehearsing their scenes in her trailer because his is too messy, and between the scripted lines, Castle and Beckett are also treading on thin ice, ironically gun shy. They talk in between takes, mostly about the past, sometimes about the present, but never about the future. She hides behind Beckett’s teasing smiles, her laden glances, and the lingering touch of her hand on his because under the ruse of partnership Kate gets to touch Castle now. The pages of every script become ripe with opportunity for moments that blur the lines. They’re few and far between because Castle and Beckett are on the backburner, slowly simmering, but she learns to read into the depths of his telling gazes and Rob praises them both on their superb acting.

She starts to wonder if she’s hiding behind Beckett or Beckett is hiding behind her.  

When she chances another glance at him, his arm is wrapped around Kate Luyben’s waist, and his eyes are busy smiling into a camera. She looks away quickly because all her messy feelings threaten to get the best of her. It feels like hours later when she walks the entire length of the endless carpet and Kris meets her at the venue’s entrance.

“You alright, love?” he asks, sliding a hand down the bare skin of her back until it sits in the curve of her waist. “You look like you’re a million miles away.” He leads her to their seats, his palm warm on the small of her back. Her conscience protests dully.

“I’m fine. It’s just the reporters…” she trails off and sighs. “It doesn’t get easier,” she admits.

His hand moves to hers, and he gives her fingers a gentle squeeze of encouragement. “Presenting at the American Music Awards,” he breathes, and a proud smile sweeps across his face. The familiarity of it feels like home, and she aches deep inside. “It’s the price of being wonderful,” he says and leans down to brush a fleeting kiss against her temple. When he catches her gaze darting around nervously, he shakes his head wearily. “No one saw. Stop worrying.”

She worries about being seen literally and metaphorically because the inside is so much scarier than the outside. She worries that all of her unspoken words will come gushing out like an erupting volcano, shaking the very foundations of her world. Something swells inside her, and she can hardly _breathe_. “I don’t think I can do this anymore.” The words burst out of her before she can stop them.

Kris’s dark gaze snaps to hers in disbelief. “ _What_?” he hisses.

The pain in the single syllable pierces her to the bone, but a part of her is secretly glad he doesn’t choose to misunderstand. She gathers her courage on a deep breath. “We need to talk,” she says softly, sadly, and in the periphery of her vision, Nathan and Kate walk hand-in-hand to their assigned seats.

“Yes, we do,” he agrees grimly.

“Later,” she adds, hurried and anxious.

His head jerks in a curt nod. “Of course.”  

***

She’s a little too much Beckett these days.

Backstage, her smile feels thin and brittle as Kate tells her how absolutely _gorgeous_ her dress is. The blonde places a delicate hand on the low-hanging shoulder of said dress, smoothing her fingertips over the silver sequins, and the open admiration in her warm brown gaze makes Stana feel _awful_. _Nathan’s Kate_ – that’s how she’s come to think of the boisterous blonde. It’s not an unkind depiction. It’s not unlike how _Castle’s Kate_ feels about Gina. Except Gina, _that Kate_ and Castle are fictional, and she has no business painting her life in shades of Andrew Marlowe’s imagination. Kris’s hurt stare and their adjourned conversation sit heavily on her conscience, and the night drags on with snippets of Nathan and Kate’s bliss and a prattled list of awards.

“There you are,” Nathan says, his deep voice drawing both their gazes to his. “The two most beautiful women at the AMAs,” he declares, but the thoughtless kiss he drops on Kate’s cheek makes the compliment sound like a polite kindness in Stana’s favor.

She resents it on principle but smiles nonetheless. “We’re up in three minutes,” she announces, turning away to pull out her compact. She pops it open and glances at the mirror absently. There’s nothing to fix, but she purses her lips anyway and wishes she feels as put-together as she looks.

“Hey.”

Kris looms large and out of focus behind her stoic reflection. Clamping the compact back together, she stares at him in confusion. “Kris…”

“Stop worrying,” he whispers because he knows her too well. “I just want to say good luck.” The sincere emotion on his face and the implicit forgiveness in his gentle tone suffocate her.

She nods and blinks back tears of frustration. “Thanks.”

“Stana?”

She turns on her heel to find Nathan studying her warily, a slight frown marring his brow. “What?”

“We’re up,” he says, and his tone suggests this isn’t the first time he tells her. Standing tall and unapologetically handsome, he embodies her problems as he courteously offers her his arm. One last look at Kris’s wounded, knowing smile, and she slides her hand into the crook of Nathan’s elbow, fingers curled into the fine fabric of his suit jacket. They walk in sync, and she’s acutely aware of how smoothly he adjusts his pace to hers.

When they’re well out of earshot, Nathan glances down at her. “Are you okay?” he asks. It’s a simple question, but implicit in it is a world of compassion, and it almost breaks her.

“No,” she breathes, soft and quiet, too honest and meant only for his ears.

His silence feels interminable, and someone starts counting down for them to walk onstage. _Five. Four. Three._ “Want me to kick his ass?” he whispers like it’s his solemn duty.

Bowing her head, she hides the unexpectedly genuine smile that lifts her lips.

They step into the limelight, and the crowd cheers.


End file.
